Paint me to life
by Prussium
Summary: Chasing inner demons is a pursuit, falling for your imagination is another. Arthur Kirkland ached to be someone else other than the self-destructive artist that he is. Granted one morning, he awakes next to the product of his own imagination, his muse in flesh and blood, swinging him into a ride full of rousing twists and turns. (Magic Realism, USUK, AU)
1. Wanted: Muse

**WARNING: This story will later contain self-harm and other related themes brought about by mental disorder(s). If you are disturbed or triggered by such, I recommend not proceeding. **

* * *

**CHAPTER 1**

**Wanted: Muse**

Leaves danced into descending swirls, kaleidoscope colors of red, yellow and green touching the autumn-carpeted pavement. Even from a distance, the city was bustling as always; the biting wind ever present, softly whispering to the late afternoon wanderers that summer has bid its goodbye.

Arthur Kirkland casted an eye over the scenery like it was the first time, waiting for the overwhelming motivation to fill his core.

After a moment of enforced appreciation, the corner of his lips sank into a frown. Alas, the beauty wasn't enough. He needed a stark driving force to fuel him up. He needed a muse. But where in the world will he find one? _Will_ he ever find one?

…What is an artist without his muse?

The absentminded perfectionist corrected his woolen scarf beneath the jet black jacket and swung his high cut leather boots for the stride. With his fingers he combed his windswept hair, originally blond but currently dyed crimson with black highlights as plain crimson makes him a carbon copy of Allistor, a sorry excuse for an older brother. He wrinkled his nose at the thought and made a mental note to change his hair color when he gets home.

He silently cursed all those artists who have enough inspiration in the form of their loved ones, instantly discovering their own muses, almost taking them for granted.

The intensifying pattering of rain against his exposed skin distracted him from his long list of cursing, as if the heavens already heard his profanities and scolded him for doing so.

_Shit. _

He thought and ran for cover.

* * *

Arthur Kirkland's little residence was nothing but an understatement compared to their magnanimous Hyde Park apartment on the other side of the Atlantic.

He kept it modest, furniture at the minimum, nothing fancy. It has only two bedrooms: he occupied one for his personal space and transformed the other into a studio where he works his freelance flair. He'd double the effort cleaning each time his mum would pay a visit which happens twice a year if she wasn't too busy being a high profile interior designer.

After spending a good amount of time freshening up and changing his hair color (tomorrow his hair would be back to blond, boring blond), he slipped on a comfortable oversized shirt and a pair of pajamas to prepare for a light supper: cinnamon roll and a cup of rose tea. He turned the TV on and propped up on the couch, his gaze occasionally slithering to the phone.

The news was on; were there any other options aside from the no-brainer reality shows? He clunked on the remote control until he found a replay episode of Adventure Time; a childish grin crossed his lips as Lady Rainicorn came zooming in.

He loved Lady Rainicorn.

On the coffee table sat his new book, teasing him, and he didn't resist the temptation. He snatched the book from the table and stretched his legs across the couch, damp hair dangling on a throw pillow. Perhaps the dream world could help him escape his lonely reality, even just for a couple of hours…

* * *

_"I'm so sorry!"_

_A voice inside Arthur's head jeered, _I told you it wasn't a good idea to spend the morning at the park. Look at you now: caked with filth and dog spit!

_He cringed at the last two words. _

_"Oh my god, I'm really sorry! Are you alright?"_

_Arthur felt a pair of arms supporting him for balance, probably the wanker who owns the disgusting beast. _

_"Aside from getting pounced at, falling to the ground face down and escaping your hound's fangs by a centimeter, I'm perfectly fine. Thank you very much," he answered, ready to storm away knowing he had nothing to do there anymore._

_"Listen dude, I'm really sorry, she doesn't usually jump at random people like that. It's totally my fault I should've known better than tying her around a tree trunk while I was taking a leak."_

_A few minutes ago, Arthur was sitting on a park bench under the shade of a magnolia tree while reading his old copy of _The Picture of Dorian Gray_, appreciating the Indian summer. But when a rocketing husky tackled him out of nowhere, he knew he should've gone somewhere else. _

_"And sorry for the crappy apology," the wanker said and face-palmed. "I know it doesn't do any good."_

_Arthur almost creased up. His drinking buddies would always ridicule the Canadians for their comical apologies but the man's West Coast accent told Arthur that no, he was definitely not Canadian._

_From where he was standing, Arthur could only see the stranger's silhouette backlit by the sun. All he could make out was his towering form on a jogging ensemble, skin glinting with sweat, white shirt hugging a well-sculpted torso._

_"I believe this is yours?" _

_Arthur's face crumpled in disdain at sight of the tattered book oozing with saliva._

_"I-it belongs to the wastebasket now," he felt his heart explode as he scooped the strength to utter the words. It was one of his favorites after all!_

_"Man, if Dorian lives today and sees his painting looking like this, he may have stabbed me to death by now," the stranger commented, pointing at the cover with Dorian Gray's incompletely distorted portrait, now even misshapen as it was chewed by the dog. _

_"Oh I can do him a favor," Arthur nodded. _

_"Forget that I said that," the stranger chuckled and waved a dismissive hand. _

_As if realizing how the two had forgotten its company, the husky barked at Arthur and was met by a squinted look from the other. The stranger laughed and scratched his head, tugging the leash with more firmness to keep the dog away from its former victim._

_"Funny how looks can be deceiving, like how an attractive packaging shelters a present; you can never really know what's inside until you tear it down," the stranger continued, probably referring to the story, Arthur assumed. "Who knows if inside it was rotten meat after all… or worse, what if there was nothing inside all those shiny and frilly and pretty wrappers just like what Lord Henry wanted?"_

_"Well, Lord Henry was a hedonistic bastard infatuated with worldliness, thinking that nothing else matters more than outer beauty and creating self-obsessed monsters like Dorian. This world would do better without a Lord Henry," Arthur replied._

_The stranger placed a hand on top of the dog's head, ruffling its silvery fur. "Cat lovers like you might not find Cookie attractive, with her looking like a big bad wolf and all but believe it or not, she didn't mean any harm. She only jumps at the people she wants to play with, mostly people she's familiar of but for some odd reasons, she ran to you."_

_Arthur glanced at the dog. Was it really obvious that he hated hounds so much? He sighed. _

_"There's more to life than what meets the eye," they chorused in conclusion._

_"Exactly," Arthur gasped. He couldn't believe his ears; he hadn't encountered anybody who'd stop by just to talk about the story for a while let alone share the same opinion with him, not in that light at least._

_"You know, I really can't let you go without a peace offering," the stranger smiled. "What about a cup of coffee? There's a nice bookstore with a coffee shop just two blocks away. I know I can't just replace your book with a new one, judging how it looks like it must have a strong sentimental value for you, but I'm guilty as charged."_

_The stranger shrugged his shoulders; a faint light of hope glowing from his sundrenched face. As he shifted to a different angle, Arthur was able to distinguish a few more features of the curious stranger: golden hair with an odd strand sticking out of his widow's peak; thick rimmed glasses framing electric blue eyes; and a smile as bright as the high noon sun. _

_Thinking it wouldn't hurt to accept the invitation, Arthur opened his mouth to speak._

_"I guess ‒"_

Krrrriiiiiiiiiiiinnnnngggg! Krrrriiiiiiiiiiiinnnnngggg! Krrrriiiiiiiiiiiinnnnngggg!

The alarm clock went off.

* * *

Arthur's eyes fluttered open, eureka moment smacking him like a bullet train.

_That's it!_

He bolted out of the couch and dashed to his studio like nobody's business; snatching the first sketching tools he laid his eyes upon, he began translating the image inside his head into the blank piece of paper. Quick, nifty strokes soon dominated the small white space as he recalled the details of the familiar stranger in his dream. When it was finished, he studied the rough sketch. Yes, he finally found his subject.

While the creative juice flooded his system, he fixed an easel and a medium-sized canvas to perform an experimental portrait. Warm and bright colors splashed in fluid strokes here and there: hues of yellow, orange and beige, just like the color scheme of his dream. Thrill shivered under his skin, streaming through his fingertips like never before. He felt like he could work all day long; he never felt so alive.

Two years ago, university was his life. He was a Multimedia Arts student living the high life in central London; one of the few who never had to struggle to pay their rent and keep themselves from freezing or starving to death. He had everything going for him, a brilliant career waiting after graduation topped with a surprising long-term romance with a Frenchman, but just like how all good things come to an end, he later on had to give up his life and face the painful consequence of dropping out after his life got 'fucked up', something no one ever saw coming, not even him. _You know, shit happens_, he would always tell people.

Had it not occurred, he should've earned his degree by now and he could be working for an animation studio as a cartoonist, his works parading the theatres worldwide, like what he saw himself doing since he was a little boy. Almost every night he lay awake wondering if things went the way he wanted them to be, he wouldn't have hated himself this much, wouldn't have hated the world this much.

Instead, he found himself walking on American soil months after spending his unthinkable days on therapy, with the hope of renewing his life away from home. He needed a fresh start and so he found a place where no one knows his name and to cope up he kept himself busy ‒ the studio serving as his safe haven.

He didn't notice the time until he caught a glimpse of the sun setting outside the window. Had it been hours already? Boy, he'd been working non-stop dedicating a day to his canvas he became oblivious of everything around him.

He tiptoed through the cluttered floor ‒ empty paint tubes collapsed in exhaustion, crumpled paper dotted frozen ‒ ripped through the curtains and beheld the sky breathing its blueberry darkness. Stepping farther backwards, he took a look of his stroke of genius.

The night had fallen and the dream world would soon claim him, filling the blank spaces of the times he missed with the stranger. He bid his studio a temporary farewell, looking forward for the next day.

* * *

"The last time we saw each other, your hair was blazing red ‒"

"Crimson."

"Okay, crimson. When did you change it?"

"Last Friday… when I realized I looked like Allistor's stupid clone. Blimey, I get mini heart attacks each time I check my reflection in the mirror!"

Arthur stopped brushing his fingertips against the plush mint bunny's fur, recalling the last time he was sitting on the same couch which was exactly two weeks ago. His glance shifted from the stuffed animal in his arms to the doctor who was sitting crossed legged in front of him, dark East Asian eyes scrutinizing.

"You don't like it, do you?" Arthur asked, green eyes on guard.

"Of course I do! I like it when you wear it naturally, it's quite refreshing," the doctor replied. "In fact, I should be the one asking you that question. Do _you_ like it?"

Arthur heaved a sigh and curled up on the couch, embracing the plush toy close to his chest, nearly burying his face on its fur. Without a doubt, the doctor was right when he gave it to Arthur during their first session and told him it was a lot better than a stress ball.

Arthur shook his head and muttered out of earshot, "I told you before: I don't like what I see in the mirror."

"Will you speak a little louder please?"

For the second time, he sighed and turned his back on the doctor, wishing he uttered another answer but he let it slip anyway.

He vented out, "I don't like what I see in the mirror. No matter what I wear, no matter what I do with my looks, tidy or messy, I never come to like myself. And as if I even know who 'myself' is! I keep on changing my looks! I dye my hair every now and then; I own every bloody color in my closet, I drew too much attention on myself already but nothing's working and I'm still empty. Every day I open my eyes, praying one morning I'll wake up wearing a smile on my face because I'm happy and contented with myself once and for all. But of course it's all wishful thinking! I'm not good enough for anybody. Not good enough and never will be and I hate feeling like this but you keep on telling me not to because it's not my fault and I'm trying not to hate myself just like what you told me to and because I want to get rid of this feeling but I can't because I'll never be good enough!"

Dr. Kiku Honda didn't reply at once, letting the words hang in the air. Ever so calmly, he waited to see if the Brit would break the silence but when he didn't, the doctor asked, "Have you been keeping yourself busy these past few days? Were you seeing some friends recently?"

"Not much, really."

"And why is that?"

Arthur twitched to his side. "Well as you know, I never bother calling anyone knowing they all are busy with work and since nobody has phoned me lately, I assumed they're all occupied at the moment. But…"

"But?"

"Do you remember what I told you last time? About joining an art exhibit in New York?"

"Yes, and what about it?"

Arthur began running his fingers through the plush toy's fur. "I spent days roaming around the city, trying to find a muse. You know, inspiration-shopping for motivation. It came to the point when I almost gave up with my plan because I wasn't getting any driving force at all," He fixed a gaze on the Japanese, as if challenging the doctor to complain about yet another impulsive change of plan, a relatively long-term plan that might be the stepping stone to redeem him from his state.

One of Arthur's biggest challenges was the incapability to envision what he wants to do with his life, his future. As of the moment, there was no denying that he wasn't doing very well with his freelance career but then again what other card did he have in his deck considering that he wasn't ready to go back to university? With whatever option he had, it was hindered by such factors like the demanding qualifications for job applicants and the contracting economy in the bigger picture. Besides, he couldn't stand any job other than what he loved the most: art. This explains Arthur's long history of job hunting and ever-changing career in the last two years.

"But you're holding on to it," Dr. Honda guessed.

Arthur nodded beneath the plush mint bunny's fur. "One night I had a dream about spending time alone at the park, reading _Dorian Gray_ when a dog pounced on me out of the blue and the annoying owner apologized like a Canadian for letting the dog slip out of his sight and jumping on me crazy and ruining my book and all. Apparently, he realized how the book means to me and strangely enough I found him… interesting. I mean except for my lit teachers, I rarely meet people who openly discuss a novel with me, much less a classic favorite! Sorry, I must be creeping you out with all these dorky things that I've been telling you."

Dr. Honda chuckled.

"What?"

"You're already ranting like an American."

Arthur blushed at the assessment. "Well, I'd rather sound like a yank than a frog but don't tell mum."

"I thought we're not using the f-word anymore?"

Arthur rolled his eyes. "Let's go back to the reason why I'm dragging my sorry ass in here every two weeks, shall we?"

Dr. Honda gave an approving nod.

Arthur shifted to a sitting position. "Okay. Once upon a time I was truly, madly, deeply in love with Francis ‒ I knew he was a frog by then but I loved him nonetheless ‒ and everything was bright and beautiful and all that romantic shit you see in the movies until it all became ugly and abusive and I was diagnosed with this… this bullcrap and the frog gave up on me when I needed him the most, ending the _first_ and _only_ long-term relationship I ever had. Tragic, isn't it? My world fell apart, that I was sure of, and I found myself stuck in this hellhole so I flew here to start over again, back to zero. My next relationships weren't any better but I'd rather hurt than feel empty and it all got more abusive in time until they couldn't stand me anymore, me being an attention whore, me being a paranoid wreck, me being plainly insane. I know I'm not making it easy for everyone but it's never easier on my part..."

There was a time when Arthur avoided talking about his sexuality but that time was long gone as he sought the courage to step out of the closet and embrace all that he is.

His mother was the only one to show support from the family, foreseen, though he found it exceedingly awkward to discuss with her his romantic life and sexual needs. He wasn't entirely close to his stepfather who remained neutral with the matter, so neutral he could send Switzerland's neutrality to question. His brothers were a different story ‒ they were the ones who took it hard and openly showed discomfort with their youngest brother coming out. They bullied him about it but Arthur never bothered to tell their mum as long as she was there for him.

Dr. Honda listened faithfully, his face a smooth mask of altering expressions, depending on his patient's atmosphere.

Oddly enough, Arthur hadn't felt discomfort opening up to him. Maybe because the doctor was also openly gay and could understand him from personal experience, maybe because he was paid to do his job. But beyond that, Arthur was also able to establish a personal relationship with his doctor; the other may not be aware of it but Arthur treats him as a friend, the only true friend he ever had even though both of them knew the doctor was keeping an eye on Arthur for his mum who was a close family friend.

Trust was difficult to gain from the Brit; he doesn't completely trust his 'friends'. It was only Dr. Honda ‒ Kiku, if they were outside his office ‒ whom he shares his secrets and things he never told anyone, anyone at all, with such ease.

"…and I still can't over the fact that the git paid more attention to his Plants vs. Zombies more than me! For heaven's sake, he just got up on his ass to pig out and swallow all the contents of my fridge, we never even fucked!" Arthur recounted his latest affair, much to his disappointment.

"Am I that difficult to love? I just need someone who can square up with my shit every day. I'm not looking for Prince Charming!" He tangled his fingers on his hair, gripping it hard enough to pull every strand. "The frog and the others made it clear that they weren't up for the challenge. I'll probably die alone…"

Dr. Honda blinked; studying his patient's distressed form. "Let's go back to the stranger in your dreams."

"What about him?"

"A while ago you were telling me about the stranger in your dreams, your newfound inspiration. Tell me about him."

"Oh. Oh, right."

Arthur got on his feet and rummaged through his knapsack, pulling his sleeves up without second thoughts; Dr. Honda knew well what was underneath them after all.

"The next morning I made these," the Brit handed a pile of papers to the doctor.

The Japanese took them in his slim hands and observed the sketches with an expectant gaze. He studied every detail, brushing his fingers across the sheet as if waiting for the figure to pop out of the paper.

"This is impressive," Dr. Honda said; eyes now on Arthur who was pacing restlessly around his office.

"No no no no _no_, it can't be, it can't fucking be!" The patient spun in realization.

"What?"

"God, I'm going batshit crazy! This can't be!" Arthur raised his arms over his head like he was drowning.

"What is it?"

"I'm- I'm obsessed with my own imagination!"

"Arthur, are you sure you just made him up? Are you sure you've never met him before?"

"Never, if my dreams don't count. How else could I meet him? A party inside my trousers?"

"Alright then, take a seat and tell me more about him."

Arthur did as he was told and grabbed the plush mint bunny to his chest. "He has blond hair, golden if bathed in sunlight, with that funny cowlick sticking out of his widow's peak. His Roman nose is his insecurity: straight, almost perfect and ends with a soft, curvy tip. Though it's nothing to be insecure about, he's very uncomfortable with it. He speaks with a West Coast accent and has _sun-kissed skin_ like how Katy Perry said it, high cheek bones as flawless as his well-built structure and a dimpled smile. The sound of his voice and his laughter never fail to win the ladies but the ones that get them the most are his eyes, sparkling ice blue yet filled with sincerity."

Dr. Honda listened as Arthur described the sketches in his hands, a policeman doing a cross-examination.

"He hates it when people forget his middle name. Music is his life. He learned to play the piano before he could write and learned many other instruments, the guitar his favorite. He has 3000 songs in his iPod, almost all the different genres in his collection. My Chemical Romance and Fall Out Boy were his childhood heroes and he got depressed for a week when he heard MCR broke up. He loves reading books and is a lot smarter than what he lets on," Arthur mused.

"What's his name?"

"Alfred Foster Jones."

* * *

_"You made me your muse? Wow, I didn't know you like me that much!"_

_"I didn't know you're a bigheaded idiot."_

_"Right on. Thanks for painting me to life, Artie. See you around!"_

* * *

**AUTHOR'S NOTE:**

_Hello, lovely people! _

_As what my old readers may have noticed, this is a brand new file in place of the original Chapters 1 and 2 because I suddenly felt the urge to rewrite them. _

_To my new readers: Greetings! Come into my arms and let me hug all of you! :3_

_You are welcome to exercise your freedom of expression. Your reviews practically give me the will to go on. *sniffs* _

_See you next chapter! _

**_SOUNDTRACK: _**

**_Invisible by Skylar Grey _**

_I guess this is a sufficient clue to what's going on inside Arthur Kirkland's own troubled world. (I prefer listening to acoustic covers, though! Haha.) _


	2. Alfred Foster Jones

**CHAPTER 2**

**Alfred Foster Jones**

It was one of those infrequent days when Arthur didn't feel like ripping his throat open because his other half kept on plaguing him about his artwork, his other half questioning every stroke of ink on paper, his other half shattering his conviction saying _no it's not enough, you should add a little_ _more of this and a little more of that _and_ it looks so stupid it belongs to the gallery inside the trashcan _against his own approving_ that should do it and in all honesty,_ _you did a good job. _

For the first time in what felt like a month or so, everything seemed perfectly fine ‒ the sun wished him a good morning like a loving mother waking her child for a cup of hot chocolate in wintertime; underneath him, grass blades danced to the rhythm of the soft humming of wind, more and more inviting as he spends another day at the park; his pen pirouetting around the Moleskine Folio on his lap as if his hand had a mind of its own. He couldn't stop.

Creativity had never been this generous to him before, it was almost utopian… bizarre. But it didn't matter. He was going to prowl at the chance and work all day doing the same thing, creating and recreating the same enthralling face in his dreams, linking lines, curves and shapes, splashing colors on papers and canvases like what he'd been doing for days. Or was it a week already? He couldn't keep track as his train of thoughts was ‒

_No no no no! That's impossible. You're not in Wonderland and most certainly you're not Alice, for God's sake! Wake up!_

He blinked, absorbing the sudden view ‒ the figure, rather ‒ traversing his eyesight.

_Stop it, Arthur. You're overthinking. _

His heart hammered out of his chest, a car zooming way beyond the legal speed limit, though he strongly believed his eyes were the traitors.

There was the sprinting figure, dashing across Arthur's line of vision a few meters away from him, the figure of a complete replica of the sketch on his paper, of the painting on his canvas, of the stranger in his dreams. He kept running, on a white and blue turtleneck tracksuit, sprinting not with a silvery husky but a German shepherd by his side. He kept running, oblivious of the lime green eyes watching him completely spellbound. He kept running… fading away from Arthur's eyesight.

Arthur shook his head with the thought of shaking his mind's cruel trick away.

_Better get your ass back home and pop a pill before that dog introduces your face to the soil. _

* * *

"Okay, who's next?"

The night was young but humid with spirits, sweat and kisses; bombarded by flamboyant music that resonated ocean deep for someone who've had one too many cups; misted over clawing smoke and radioactive dancing lights.

Arthur raised his voice over the invincible music, a child fighting for his parents' attention. While he was asking his friends about who were next in line to toss balls across the beer pong table, a team from the previous game didn't seem to recover from their loss.

"This is _unfair_! I demand another rematch!" Mathias declared; words strung on a slur.

Berwald chuckled as his partner, Tino, flashed a complacent smile. Three rounds of beer pong won against the same opponents who were still asking for a rematch, the Swede and the Finn couldn't help but be amused by their opponents' sheer persistence.

Lukas rolled his eyes. The Norwegian could _never_ get over his Dane being a sore loser. "Knock it off, Mathias. _I'll_ give you a rematch."

Without giving his partner the chance to ponder on his words, Lukas locked his lips against Mathias', firm and fierce, rendering everyone speechless by his sudden display of fervent affection that only happens, well, once in a blue moon.

"Get a room, you two!" Gilbert cheered, accompanied by the wolf whistles from their little crowd.

Mathias smiled into the kiss and let Lukas take him by the hand, both of them disappearing into a dark corner.

After it was clear that there wouldn't be another rematch between Berwald and Tino against Mathias and Lukas, the table was soon taken over by Ludwig and Feliciano together with Antonio and Lovino.

"You better not screw this up or so help me I'll feed your chorizos to that beer sucker's dogs!" Lovino nudged his Spaniard in the ribs and glared at his brother's lover.

"Blackie, Berlitz and Aster will be pleased!" Feliciano said on a sing-song voice under Ludwig's embrace.

Ludwig simply chuckled and planted a kiss on Feliciano's forehead, much to his Italian's delight.

"I will never let those little monsters get their paws on my chorizos! C'mon, Lovi let's get it on!" Antonio said.

Arthur never thought he would ever have such a crazy set of friends when he flew to the country but fate sent them to him in the most peculiar, unexpected times until, little by little, he found himself inside their circle, defining crazy almost every Saturday night.

It all began one night when Arthur's car got stuck in the middle of nowhere (he still couldn't recall why he ended up there in the first place) and was found by two brothers who happened to be mechanics, Gilbert and Ludwig, and were kind enough to lend a hand and fix his car. Arthur paid them back with free drinks as soon as they returned to the city.

The next week Arthur met Berwald who was managing a family-owned furniture shop downtown while he was redesigning his newly acquired flat. Arthur was soon to learn that the Swede knew Gilbert and Ludwig through Tino, Mathias and Lukas who were working on a local toy store whose frequent hang out place was the pizzeria-at-day/discotheque-at-night owned by Feliciano (who was dating Ludwig) and his brother Lovino who was dating Antonio who supplies liquor to the Italian brothers who are in close relations with Elizaveta, the model Arthur worked with once for a photoshoot project who also happened to be Gilbert's fiancée.

Small world, isn't it?

The next thing he knew he was blowing his paycheck on booze and having fun with his newfound friends the Arthur way, the extreme kind of fun.

It used to be an all-boys night out (dare they call it) until Elizaveta soon joined the party but it wasn't like it changed anything at all. _She's one of the boys,_ Gilbert once said, only to be hit by a greasy frying pan fresh from their kitchen sink.

It wasn't long until Arthur's friends gave up on beer pong. Antonio and Lovino won their match, to Antonio's relief with his dear chorizos safe and sound and the consequences were more of a luxury for Ludwig each time Feliciano would miss the targets so it was more of a win-win situation. They settled down around their table, some of them worn out, some a little too drunk and some missing, quoting Berwald as he referred to Mathias and Lukas.

Arthur took a seat next to Gilbert who was holding Elizaveta on his lap while talking a mile a minute with the rest of their friends. Another night out with friends, another night of discreet glances of jealousy for being the only odd one out. Because of that, Arthur had become their favorite plaything, pushing him around, setting him up for ambush dates he never asked for. The fuckers.

Gilbert twirled Elizaveta's bronze locks around his finger, blowing his own horn about the wedding that will take place a few weeks from now, inducing his friends to follow the lead. "You have twelve states to choose from, dammit! What are you waiting for?"

Berwald, Tino, Antonio, Lovino, Ludwig and Feliciano (Mathias and Lukas still hadn't shown up) sat wordless as they ran out of excuse not to tie the knot close to Gilbert and Elizaveta's special day. It was either their savings still weren't enough or they didn't have to get married to profess their love for each other.

"And you, the green-eyed monster."

Of course. Arthur wouldn't be spared from Gilbert's slurred tirades. "You can't always be the beer pong referee. Why don't you just strut your sassy British ass out there and get another partner? Someone's waiting for you!"

"Yeah, Arthur. Why don't you give it another try?" Tino asked across the table, violet eyes drooping with sleepiness, hand stroking Berwald's.

All eyes were on him and Arthur just laughed it off. Gilbert didn't have to shove it on his face that he was the only one who didn't have a long-term partner but no, thanks. For now he was happy to be the one, two, three, four… eleventh wheel of the bunch.

"What's so funny, punk?"

"You guys, I'm trying, I'm trying! But remember last time? When did it ever work? The time before that? The bloody git just spread his legs and knocked me out and the next morning I was flat broke! And the time before that‒"

"We know your list can go on forever if we're tracking your exes for the past, what six, five months? But we're not tagging you along for no reason, you know."

Arthur felt a pair of insistent hands push him from his chair to the other side of the room where everyone was laughing, kissing, drinking, smoking and dancing senseless.

_Here we go again. _

He didn't want to be a spoilsport so he consented wherever his friends pushed him into, his night cloudy with new faces, random questions and unfamiliar laughter mingled into the bowl of certainty that he would never meet them again after tonight.

But there was a face he swore he'd seen before ‒ a face radiating with too much familiarity right from the moment he emerged into this faintly lit box of music, smoke and liquor. He was the face Arthur saw the last time he was at the park, the figure running around with a German shepherd ‒

_Go home, Arthur. You're drunk. _

Arthur's eyes followed the familiar face until it vanished along the sea of complete strangers.

* * *

A few more drinks and everything was hazy like images in a vague dream.

It was unusually noisy, irritating, disturbing, scrambled with panicked screaming. Arthur felt a stir of anger, confusion and discomfort.

Red. Black. Red. Black. Red. Black.

What was going on?

_Thump. Thump. Thump. Thump. Thump._

He opened his mouth to speak but no sound came out, only salty, metallic liquid oozing out of his lips. Knuckles connected to flesh. Cold floor stroked palms and kissed heads. Mouths babbled unintelligibly, suspending hot air in the unsettled atmosphere.

Sore cheekbones, broken nose.

Shaky knees, pressing hands.

Hearts racing out of rhythm.

Vision blurred.

Did he hear his name?

Lights out.

* * *

Arthur's eyelids were heavy as a boulder, so was the rest of his body. Every inch of him hurt as if he'd been a human carpet on a Jurassic stampede overnight. The mattress underneath him felt like marble floor.

What happened?

He mounted on his elbows and groaned as he met the sharp, slashing pain in his head, arms, torso… hell, even his eyebrows hurt! The room spun like he was riding a lightning-speed merry-go-round operated by an ecstasy addict. His breathing caught a strange pace and he reached the bridge of his nose, feeling the papery texture glued on it, covering a sore, unpleasant sensation congratulating him that he got his nose broken last night. Again. His fingers trailed along his face, dabbing and tapping until he found another aching spot right beside the corner of his mouth. Wow, he must have had his face rearranged pretty well last night! But it just one of those many nights in his twenty-three years of existence, nothing new, it was more of a skill than a hobby although people always assumed it was the second one.

Arthur sank back to the mattress, realizing he was only in his underwear. He released a sigh of relief as he commended himself for making the right decision to wear plain black boxers, in short something decent, a far cry from his usual peculiar choices.

The light snoring of the sleeping figure beside him cautioned the Brit that he wasn't alone; a little more alarming when he made out it wasn't _his_ bed after all. From where he was lying, all Arthur could see was the stranger's rumpled blond hair buried in the pillow, strong jawline prominent as his face was drawn to the opposite side of the bed, tanned upper body exposed while the blanket they shared flagrantly covered just the lower half of his body, which was more amusing than startling.

It wasn't the first time Arthur woke up next to a stranger. He begged his brains for a flashback. Was he his overnight lover? Did Arthur seduce him to take him home and spend the night on his bed? Was he the reason why Arthur was aching and broken? Arthur twitched subtly, careful not to wake his companion whoever he was. Oddly enough, there was an absence of pain in his hips or between his legs – something that never happened after spending a night with someone he couldn't remember the next morning, let alone he woke up with his underwear on!

He wasn't any of Arthur's friends, was he? If so, Arthur could've recognized him at first sight even without seeing his face. To kill his curiosity, the Brit leaned closer towards his mysterious companion and saw the last face he expected to see.

Arthur's skin crawled.

He couldn't remember selling his soul to bring _him_ to life! With a yelp, he bounced away from the – the stranger, back against the wall on his side of the bed but it was too late before he slithered his way out.

"Hands off my hamburger!"

The stranger yelled and bolted upright, his fancy dream interrupted by the loud, agitated gasp. He snatched his eyeglasses from the nightstand to correct his blurred vision.

Arthur was a lizard plastered on the wall, blood immediately draining out of his system, evaporating in the air, leaving his face paper white. "S-Stay away!"

He was met with electric blue eyes wide as saucers, mirroring his exact staggered expression. The stranger held his hands in surrender. "Woah there, dude, calm down! It wasn't meant for you!"

"Don't touch me!" Arthur ordered. If it was possible, he was still pushing himself against the wall, concrete absorbing his skull, just to be out of the stranger's touch.

"Dude, you're freaking out like a lady. It's not like I raped you or anything," the stranger smiled, dimpled with conceit.

Arthur furrowed his eyebrows. How he wanted to manhandle the arrogant stranger! He didn't have the right to talk to him that way. He was just a… a painting, a talking painting in flesh and blood! Any second he would wake up from this weird dream and he'd be crawling out of his own bed and make some toast while working on his studio. Just. Like. Any. Other. Typical. Day.

Arthur didn't answer. Instead, he released the breath he didn't know he was holding.

"Don't try your James Bond stunts on me now," the stranger chuckled, watching Arthur as if he was a circus animal. He corrected himself into a sitting position, still a good distance from his paranoid guest. "In fairness you put up a pretty good fight, you just got us kicked out of the bar a little early. Obviously, I lost the chance of getting laid last night so you kind of owe me."

It was the stranger's turn to study Arthur's form up-close, x-ray scanner eyes drawing an invisible vertical line from his forehead down to his bare torso. He smiled in amusement, as if discovering a hidden treasure.

"Nice tattoo you got there, by the way," he said and pointed at the gothic clock inked on Arthur's stomach, a stark contrast to his pale skin. It was positioned in such an interesting spot, somewhere people wouldn't simply consider, like it wasn't just there for aesthetics, like it had another purpose… to conceal a scar, perhaps?

Before the stranger could take a closer look at it, Arthur yanked the entire blanket to himself, to cover the part of his body where the mark was, stripping the warmth out of the stranger, leaving him to his star spangled boxers. Oh, the bloody patriot.

"I don't owe you anything," Arthur said, hands tight over the blanket.

"Oh sure you do, limey! You're in my place anyway," the stranger was even more amused at the Brit as a soft tint of red sprayed across his face.

Arthur slapped his forehead. "What the bloody hell am I doing here?"

"Good question," the stranger traced the discarded clothes on the floor, both his and Arthur's. "Like I told you, I went out last night to get hammered so I went to this bar and had a couple of drinks with my grade school friends Gilbert and Ludwig. Man, those brothers are _sick_. They slurp beer like water!"

"Tell me about it," Arthur remembered the first night they had drinks together. The following day when he could barely get up without falling on the floor, Arthur made a mental note not to drink like that again unless he wanted to lose his liver in no time.

"Anyway, it was Happy Saturday with their friends and you happened to be one of them who eventually got into this huge-ass fight with some fellas we never encountered around before. You don't remember, no?" the stranger said.

Arthur shook his head in shame. When will he ever stop getting himself into troubles like that?

"We didn't know how it happened, it just did. Your friends said you just slipped out of their sight and the next thing they knew you were knocking the lights out of those fellas. I'm telling you it was sick, dude. Saw it myself. But yeah, getting kicked out of the bar was cooler than spending the night in jail," the stranger went on.

While last night's events were on a verbal rewind, Arthur tried to get even the slightest glimpse of what happened from his own brain. He frowned as all he got were fuzzy pictures.

"Everything went crazy and the people were practically all over the place. Gilbert asked me where I live so I told him my address and apparently, he said you live in the same apartment complex, just outside my door to be exact, so he asked me the favor to take you home."

"_What?! _We live next to each other? We're _neighbors_?"

"Open the door if you don't believe me. I moved in three months ago, to the only vacant unit two floors below, replacing my brother who's now in France living with his boyfriend. I moved in this unit just two weeks ago, though."

"W-we're living on the same building for three months already… you're living next to my unit for two weeks… you're brother's in _France_… with his _boyfriend_…" Arthur spat the last words with utter disgust.

"Geez, do you really have to repeat everything I say?"

"Sorry," Arthur snapped out of his thoughts.

"Alright, so there I was, a Good Samaritan taking a drunk and bloodied friend's friend I sort of met at the party. But then when we reached your door, I couldn't find the keys and you were too passed out to tell me where the spare keys were if you even have any so I was left with no other choice but to take you in my own space just for the night."

Arthur ran his fingers through the little bandage on the bridge of his nose.

"Yeah, you're welcome. The moment I was finished fixing you up, you began stripping because you said you were hot. Do you still want me to proceed?"

Arthur opened his mouth but it took a while to produce the words.

"I-I think that's enough information already," he said. He really didn't want to know what happened next. "I have to go."

The Brit leaped out of the bed and hurried to retrieve the clothes he abandoned on the floor. He put his rugged pants on, wallet and phone still in their respective places, and felt frosty blue eyes watching him from behind, their owner rooted in his seat.

"Thank you so much for, er, everything," he said, slipping on his red shirt.

"No prob, Artie."

Arthur glanced over his shoulder.

"What did you just call me?"

"Artie," the stranger repeated conveniently. "Like, from your name: Arthur Cedric Kirkland."

Arthur cringed at his full name. "How did you know my name? I don't think we've ever been introduced to each other, formally I mean."

"That's because you were busy having your nose broken last night," the stranger laughed, rising from his seat.

The Brit set his jaw, ready to reach the door knob.

"As much as I want to break it to you gently that I'm not your stalker," the stranger said. "Your door says so."

"O-oh, right."

The stranger stretched a hand towards Arthur. "Alfred Foster Jones. Nice meeting you."

They shook hands and said goodbye.

Once Arthur locked himself inside his unit, which was right outside the stranger's – Alfred's – just like what he said, he sank against the door and reached for his phone with one person in mind: Dr. Kiku Honda.

"Please pick it up," Arthur whispered and closed his eyes, repeating the words like a prayer.

_Pick it up. Pick it up. Please, pick it up. Pick it up. Please._

* * *

"He's alive!"

Dr. Kiku Honda watched as his patient paced restlessly in circles like a squirrel that munched three sacks of caffeine. Earlier this morning, he received a call from Arthur Kirkland, suggesting that they meet as soon as possible and there he was sitting on his office chair, listening to his patient's frantic ranting instead of having lunch with his Greek boyfriend.

"I-I-I can't believe it, we even shook hands! He's my fucking neighbor!"

Forget the couch. Arthur could talk better pacing around but he was talking too fast his breath couldn't catch up. Right from the moment he entered the doctor's office, he'd been spilling about his Saturday night, the bar fight and this morning when he woke up next to _him_. He couldn't believe Alfred popped out of his imagination; there should be a scientific explanation behind that!

Dr. Honda listened as he counted the fresh injuries in Arthur's skin. A cut near his right eyebrow, a broken nose, one bruise on the corner of his mouth and one too many in his arms. For sure there were many others in his upper body but last time was worse.

"Are you sure it wasn't a dream?" Dr. Honda asked, forcing Arthur to a full stop.

Fiery green eyes locked with pitch blacks. "I know I said I was going batshit crazy last time but I'm telling you, _he's alive_!"

Their conversation lasted for twenty more minutes until Arthur was sent home prescribed with a new set of meds and advised to see more friends, perhaps at daytime when he didn't have to get himself drunk to have fun.

In his room he stared blankly at the ceiling. He didn't bother checking on his neighbor to see if he was still there or he already went back to Arthur's paintings. He wanted to call his friends, especially Gilbert, to ask them what really happened the night before. Before he could dial anyone, he realized his mother had just left him a message.

_Hello, darling. You haven't called for days. How are you feeling? I just received a message from Dr. Honda about your last visit. Would you like me to come over? _

Arthur felt doomed, betrayed.

Why wouldn't anybody believe him?

* * *

**AUTHOR'S NOTE:**

_Meow. _

_Am I the only one who runs out of brain cells after writing a past chapter? Sorry if this took longer than you expected, I just had a lot of things going around topped with writer's block, procrastination and switching attention span. But I have to admit: this chapter was fun to write. I hope you had fun just the same! As promised, here was Alfred making his first appearance and also a special participation from our fabulous friends! Though I know it was quite short and lacking. Don't worry they'll make a comeback in the next few chapters. Pffft. Waddaya think?_

_Seriously, I didn't expect anyone would care to read this with the boring introduction (zzzZZZ) but you guys proved me wrong so thank you for everyone who simply read, reviewed, added this story to your favorites and your story alerts. It means a lot to me. *teleports to your side and hugs the lights out of you*_

_For the next chapters, please take time to leave a review. I need you guys to be brutally honest with me so I'll know what I need to improve on. Also, I can use some motivation from you beautiful people. Haha. Till next time!_


	3. A Beautiful Mess

**CHAPTER 3**

**A Beautiful Mess**

"Let me repeat what you just said ‒"

"You know if you keep repeating what everyone just told you, you might want to have your ears checked."

Alfred's palm was flat against the door before Arthur had the chance to slam it flat against his neighbor's face. Alfred was pushing his luck. It was bad enough that he raised the alarm concerning Arthur's troubled mental health; on top of that, put the Brit in another set of meds that wasn't a necessity had _that_ incident never happened and now _this?_

"C'mon, Artie —"

"You're not allowed to call me that."

"Alright – _Arthur_ – _please?_ How can you turn your back on a friend when he needs you the most? Let alone someone who did you a huge favor that probably saved your life that night –"

There was no need for Alfred to finish his sentence as the door was stretched wide open, begrudgingly or not, before the poor boy could beg and get down on his knees and cry Arthur a river. The Brit chose to save himself from the flood; he could barely stand the kicked puppy dog pout, topped with those big, glossy, blue eyes of a child and he had too much verbal guilt tripping already, his ears pleading not to hear the rewind of the wreckage from his last night out.

"THANK YOU!"

The eight fat letters flashed in the air as they were puffed out in irrevocable relief, Alfred's lungs spewing out of his chest. Green eyes flickered down the bags and boxes lining outside his door, Alfred the biggest package of them all, waiting to be towed inside Arthur's home.

Just when he thought he could get rid of this absurdity after paying his last visit to Dr. Honda, Arthur was proven wrong this morning when his neighbor came knocking on his door a few minutes ago, breaking the news: Alfred had to move out of his unit as he wouldn't be able to maintain it along with all the dues he accumulated in the past months, impulsive spending be damned, and he had no other place to crash into; none he could think of. All his friends had too much trouble in their own plates.

Questions and arguments were repeatedly hurled to the American's end but Alfred had every justification to persuade his British neighbor with his wishes, the virtue of returning a favor the ace on his deck, leaving Arthur with no choice but to embark himself in the next chapter of Arthur's Adventures in Mindfuckland.

Arthur strode towards the kitchen while Alfred hauled inside what was left of his belongings. He didn't have much; only a handful of bags, boxes and a guitar case, nothing threatening to Arthur's own little space.

"Would you like a cup of tea?"

With the warm kettle sitting on the stove, Arthur reached for two mugs from the wooden cabinet. He heard a snort from the living room.

"You drink _tea_?" Alfred spat, materializing inside the kitchen, his face of a seven-year-old's watching an alien marching out of a spaceship that just landed from Sunflower galaxy.

"You eat hamburgers?!" Arthur retorted; exaggerating Alfred's astonished look, eyes wide with acidic sarcasm.

Alfred suppressed his laughter. "Sorry, man, you just–" He gestured at the other man's slightly shorter stature: ink black dress shirt, brutally torn jeans and greasy canvas sneakers. "–don't look like the type who drinks tea. But no, thanks. I prefer coffee."

Arthur raised an eyebrow as he slid on the counter seat, content with his morning drink. "Suit yourself."

"May I?" Alfred pointed at the coffee maker and met the owner's approval. "Don't worry I'll try not to abuse your hospitality. I may be a freeloader at some time but just give me a while to pay all my dues and I'll be gone."

"You better do. I can barely fend for myself as much as you do you shan't be surprised if I'll be kicked out in the cold one of these days," Arthur lifted his mug, lips curling an upward slit.

"The landlady told me it won't be any day this month, so that's okay," Alfred said, pouring the dark liquid into his own glass. "I'll have enough time to look for new jobs and get the hell out of here in no time… Hey, I can clean your home for you if you want to!"

"If you won't be gone by tomorrow with the rest of my apartment, so be it." Arthur teased, squashing a sugar cube with his teaspoon until it dusted the plate like glitters.

Alfred chuckled. "I have the most inconsistent timetable in the earth's entire surface I don't think I'll have the chance to empty this place."

"Wonder what you do for a living other than crashing into people's homes."

Twirling the spoon between his fingers, Alfred answered. "Right now I work at a coffee shop downtown. Sometimes I do gigs with my band mates but that comes like once in a blue moon and it's totally random. I used to be a dog walker but my bosses said they had to tighten the belt at times like these so that's one job I just lost."

Arthur shifted his gaze from his own childish game to the person across the counter and studied his face. "Aren't you a little young to work and live on your own? I mean, aren't you supposed to be -?"

"- At school? In college?" Alfred predicted. "I figured universities could use one less knucklehead out of their grounds!"

Arthur's eyes narrowed into inquisitive slits. "How old are you?"

"Old enough to be kicked out of foster homes I couldn't count with my ten fingers," Alfred snickered and took a sip of his coffee. "Nineteen."

Silence reigned for a moment, the two of them deciding whether to step into the landmine.

"Mind to give me a little sneak peek of your life story?" Arthur volunteered.

"Only if you can stick around for a while," Alfred challenged.

Arthur glanced at the watch in his wrist. "I have forty-three minutes."

The American smiled and drummed his fingers on his chin, pensive. "Oh, where to start? Where to start?"

"Come on! You were born by the time I was learning to read, it's not like I'm asking you to recall all your past lives!" Arthur slammed his palm against the tiled countertop.

"Right on," Alfred laughed then shifted on his seat and took a deep breath, azure eyes taking sudden interest on his mug. "Well… like I just told you, I spent a third of my life running away. I've been hopping from one foster home to another since I can remember. Don't ask me why – I don't know either. Maybe I'm just looking for a place I can call home, I don't know. I met different people, spent good and bad times with them… I watched the years pass by like how I watched people leave, _my friends_ leave, and have families they now call their own."

Maybe it was because of all the people Alfred encountered that he was able to speak about his life like an open book, lessened discomfort if not with complete ease. He continued, "Then finally, when I was 12, my lifetime prayers were heard. I was adopted by a Canadian couple with an only child, Matthew – the brother I already told you about – and those were the awesomest years of my life, I have to say! But now we parted ways, he just left for France to study and he's living with his lover. If I'm not mistaken, he's around your age, Mattie's boyfriend…"

"You still haven't told me why you're not in school," Arthur pinpointed.

"I'm getting there!" Alfred said, once again shifting on his seat. "So yeah, Mattie's in Europe for college while I'm here, well, doing what I'm doing. I actually entered university last year – Psychology major, how about that? But there came a day that I decided to stop and just drop out. I told our parents that I want to be on my own again and they let me go just like that. They kept offering support but I refused; it may sound cliché but I wanted to find myself and discover life and learn on my own. I want adventure; I want to be out there! So I looked for jobs to support myself, drove from one city to another, kept in touch with my family, until I settled in this city. And here I am homeless and broke."

"Tough life," Arthur commented and crossed his arms, glance not tearing away from Alfred as he listened to his summarized autobiography.

"I know," Alfred said. "Why am I even telling you this jackshit? What if you're a CIA agent?"

"Excuse _you_. Do I strike you as someone who works for your government, yank?" Arthur rose from his seat, placing his mug on the sink.

"Where are you going?" Alfred also finished his drink and did the same.

"Around your new temporary home, my little empire," Arthur answered. "Follow me, minion."

Alfred grinned. The deal was on. He would have a place to stay in exchange of his cleaning service. How bad can it be? He trailed behind Arthur who was showing him around the apartment. Alfred studied his surroundings. It wouldn't be much of an effort to clean the place, if there was anything to clean.

Truth be told, Arthur was doing an excellent job maintaining it – walls boasted phenomenal colors Alfred never thought made sense together, furnishings hoisted on guard in their ideal places, frames plastered the wall with impeccable balance. From the ceiling down to the floor, he was giving dust no reason to exist! The place was the love child of aesthetics and order, an exclusive gallery in its own right.

Yet something prevented Alfred from throwing himself down on his knees to worship Arthur: it was a corner not very far from the two doors he supposed were bedrooms, standing out from the other parts of the apartment. It was an abandoned alley with busted lights, the gloomy portion in the city you'd want to avoid when walking home at night. Why would it stay that way when the rest of the house was trimmed with meticulous beauty? Was that broken glass on the floor? He winced but he didn't ask.

"There are actually two bedrooms but I'm using the other one for work," Arthur twisted the doorknob on the second door and let it ajar.

Alfred exclaimed at the sight unfolding before him. "Woah! This is what you do for a living?"

"Fair enough to pay rent, yes," Arthur ran a hand on the back of his head.

The studio was a vivid stream of consciousness. Sunlight danced around every corner from the far-reaching glass windows, curtains laced on opposite sides. Penciled concepts patched the walls, peculiar lines and geometric shapes assembled in startling harmony; brushes, paint cans and old newspapers blanketed the floor, stepping stones through the deep pond of imagination. An easel waited still and empty beside the bureau cabinet, a stool resting underneath. Everywhere was an explosion of striking colors – the night sky in the fourth of July paling in comparison. It was the most beautiful mess Alfred had ever laid his eyes on.

Paintings of people overshadowed the exhibit under construction; figures and faces of random people you pass by walking around the streets, maybe the park, or perhaps people you boarded the subway with; angles, poses and expressions telling their personal stories. Gems to the collection were portraits of women, women of the world – Aphrodite in different faces, sizes, colors and ages; diverse in form yet sheer beauty omnipresent and indisputable.

The display of countless unfinished canvases caught Alfred's eye more than anything else in the room. He knew should've given it less attention but it was a purple cow in the middle of a traffic jam.

"Most of them are personal projects, the underpaintings," Arthur said, as if reading his thoughts. "I've always thought about having them finished but I don't know what to do with them afterwards."

On the top of the bureau cabinet sat a fragmentary sculpture of a white angel, wings poised in glory, yet to break away from the block of marble. Alfred leaned closer to take a look at the graceful figure, fighting the urge not to touch it for he knew that if his unworthy fingers touched such implausible brilliance it would fade away, disintegrate into the river of mind's eye without moment's hesitation, never to be seen again.

"You can always sell them," Alfred suggested, now observing and admiring the tiniest details of a complete portrait of a lady in a black gown, taking time to absorb how realistic the painting appeared: like an authentic photograph.

"But who'd want them?" Arthur frowned.

Alfred knitted his eyebrows at the rhetorical question and opened his mouth after a moment but Arthur went on.

"Right now I'm preparing to join this art exhibit in New York," Arthur said, sweeping off rubber dust on top of the study table, forgetting the paintings in progress as if he had nothing to do with them anymore, shifting his attention like changing TV channels. "I still don't know what to paint about but I'll proceed anyway. I'll be going with a Dutch friend I met from a previous exhibit and I think it's worth taking a shot… so these underpaintings will have to wait for a while."

Alfred's eyes were suddenly somewhere else again. There was something about the bureau cabinet, he felt, quite strange Alfred knew, but it was something strongly compelling as if it was begging to be opened that he tried to pull one of the drawers. Fingers stretching a few inches from the knob, he cried as they were swatted away, taking him back to awareness.

"I have to warn you: I'm very strict about my things," Arthur said, green eyes stern with caution. He turned towards the door, leading his guest out.

Giving it a last look over his shoulder, Alfred stepped out of the room.

"The living room is all yours now," Arthur announced, locking the studio door behind him. "You'll just have to make do with the couch."

Alfred smiled and bounced on his new cradle, patenting it to be his and only his. "Better the couch than the cold pavement outside."

* * *

It had been twenty hours, four minutes and thirty-three seconds.

Arthur counted in his head, lurking away from his bedroom to inspect the slumbering boy curled up under the newly washed quilt he lent him the night before.

It had been twenty hours, four minutes and thirty-three seconds since the boy knocked on his door, pleading for a temporary shelter… twenty hours, four minutes and thirty-three seconds since Arthur let him in and welcomed him within his home.

Arthur tiptoed towards the couch and knelt close before the figure, a sly fox prowling down its prey. Lips curled to a faint smile, thick threads of gold dangling aimless, chest heaving in a mellow rhythm, eyes sealing the world of floating thoughts into the subconscious; Alfred was a small child, innocent and vulnerable, looking almost angelic, yet so human.

He couldn't just pop out of Arthur's imagination, could he? There had to be some logical explanation behind this or else this should pass by as a dream! An absurd, out-of-this-world, way-beyond-anyone's-sanity dream!

Oh, what had he gotten himself into?

How will there ever be an explanation about this boy emerging from his paintings? How can someone come into existence from mere cloth canvas, pencil and acrylics?

Confrontation came close when Alfred nearly laid his fingers on the bureau cabinet where Arthur hid the sketches and paintings of the other boy, the locks his glorified saviors.

A single touch wouldn't suffice, wouldn't answer the million-dollar questions in his head but Arthur couldn't resist, only to his surprise, bright blue eyes twinkled to life.

"D-dude, hands off!" Alfred croaked, helplessly flailing his hands in alarm upon realizing the attempted physical contact. "Why are you giving me that look anyway? Was there something in my face?"

He rubbed his eyes and stretched his limb, yawning sleep away. Arthur's face was an abrupt, smooth, blank mask.

"You moan and drool in your sleep."

With that, Arthur got to his feet and disappeared to the kitchen, a robot carrying out his morning routine.

Alfred blinked, taking a second to register what the other said and when he did, his cheeks burned red with embarrassment, his fingers reached for any fluids running from the corner of his mouth.

"Did I really?" He muttered under his breath.

* * *

**AUTHOR'S NOTE:**

_Let the British-American cohabitation begin!_

_I know, I know. This is picking a turtle-speed progress because I'm trying to establish what I think needs to be established before we pick up the pace, including the telltale signs of Arthur's personality that would dictate the course of this entire story. (Just wait until the storm comes. Mwahahahahahaha!)_

_But here is where the real action starts, if this does any good. How do you like it so far? __**Does this story even make any sense to you? **__I hope it does. /shot_

_If you noticed the distinction with how I wrote chapters two, three and four from chapter one, I'd say it's because I'm currently experimenting with my writing style. _

_Reviews, suggestions and critiques serve as lifelines to authors especially for starters like me so please don't hesitate to tell me what you think if you want improvement with how I tell the story and basically with how the story goes. I'm open to anything. :3 _

**_And on the final note,_**_ does anyone of you happen to know someone who can beta for me? I don't personally know anyone who can do the job, so if you can suggest someone, that will be more than appreciated! _


	4. Young Volcanoes

**CHAPTER 4**

**Young Volcanoes**

Alfred was starting to wonder if he'd just volunteered himself as a human sacrifice to Bigfoot's lair or signed himself up for a quest with the lost boys to shave Captain Hook's right eyebrow. Or probably both.

Because both pertain to the living-with-Arthur-Kirkland experience.

Alfred takes pride on his snow globe life, glitzy nineteen years of existence, miniature world dusted with the mundane and idiosyncratic. He thought he saw it all, had it all vacuumed inside the little glass sphere of glitters and reduced landscape but there came the untamed, never-before-seen creature called Arthur Kirkland, running along out in the open and proving him wrong straight into the face.

Alfred was finished wiping down and straightening the furniture and was on his knees sorting Arthur's old files, papers and magazines by the coffee table - his task for the week ‒ when the bedroom door clicked open.

"I made breakfast," he announced, wearing his million-watt grin.

Arthur scurried across the living room – wind breezing through his button-down shirt and floor grumbling under heavy boots – and side-glanced at the plate on the kitchen island: poached eggs and pan fried bacon.

"I'll pass," he said, seizing his car keys from the coffee table.

The British tenant barely stayed inside his own unit, blackout binging every other night it seemed; just one ring on his slick, black smart phone and he'd be ghosting out the door.

Most times, Alfred would wake up at the most ungodly hours in the morning, sweet dreams draining into the retching sounds inside the bathroom like someone was giving birth through the mouth.

The boy would knock and ask if Arthur needed help, but the walking bottle of reeking nicotine and alcohol would misplace his slurred words, smack Alfred's hand away and stagger his way to his bedroom, just to let Alfred know he wasn't planning to sleep on the bathroom floor.

The next morning was to be spent with lamentation as the casualties were to be realized: missing wallet or damaged car, sometimes both.

Sometimes – also at the most ungodly hours – Alfred would wake up to the noise coming from his housemate's bedroom or studio, the kind of noise often heard from your neighbors doomed for divorce just take away the verbal war, rebelling against the blasting metal background music.

Sometimes he wouldn't go home at all. He'd be gone two or three days away, always arriving in the morning.

But whatever happened during those nights away wasn't Alfred's business anymore, not that he cared or anything. How the Brit could live such reckless life with a career adrift, Alfred had no idea. Arthur might be a member of some neighbor-turned-housemate-eating-cult, for all Alfred knew!

But sober mornings were a different story.

Arthur stopped by the coffee table, spared Alfred a glance for the first time of the day, and ran an index finger through the smooth plane of pine wood. He watched the dust particles dance in the air. "Wipe it clean, will you?"

Alfred smiled as his hands searched for the cleaning agents. He muttered while Arthur was walking out of earshot. "As you wish, little prince."

With the slamming of the door, solitude became Alfred's company.

"What the hell!"

He whined and flailed his arms in despair as he fell on the floor.

Arthur was a grumpy old man trapped in the body of a rockstar, Alfred swore. It wasn't like he made it easy for Alfred to live inside his home! More often than not, the Brit would be treating Alfred as if he was an unwelcome presence.

The American couldn't help but feel like he was being watched with every action he made; green eyes waiting for Alfred to morph back into his original form, a squealing pineapple, a flying hippopotamus or a fire-breathing mosquito maybe, whatever the other was expecting, he could never figure out. Cold, green eyes observed him closely and constantly, with that predatory glint undeviating, not letting their guard down.

And the worse thing was no matter how good Alfred did with his tasks – how faithfully he followed his orders! – Arthur never acknowledged it. He just bossed around, ordering Alfred another task before the boy could even finish and if he's on a roll, he would fire more and tell Alfred off and complain about not arranging something the way he was told to. He wanted the job done 140% Vladimir Putin perfect or else all the effort would be thrown out in the window. Just. Like. That. Insanity became an understated word to Alfred nowadays.

But what can Alfred do? The guy was kind enough to let him in so as long as he wasn't showing any interest for Alfred's intestines, it _had_ to be endurable.

The desperate American found himself cursing under his breath in front of the abandoned alley (he decided to call it that). He couldn't be mistaken; it was the only portion of the house Arthur never instructed him to touch. If Arthur was so obsessed with perfection, why would such horrible thing exist? Was it where Arthur's victims took their last breath before he ended their sorry lives? He shook the last thought away and studied the view before him. Busted lights hung from the ceiling, broken glass littered the floor along with some unidentifiable debris. It was exactly how it looked like the first time he set foot inside Arthur's place.

Something had to be done here.

* * *

"Is that _Happy Meal_?" Arthur's voice was toxic with accusation.

Alfred's arms dropped to his sides, the bags of food in question almost touching the tiled floor. "What've I done wrong this time? You asked me to buy you dinner, I bought you dinner!"

"You call those overly salted, greasy potatoes dinner?"

There were days when Arthur's home was anarchic, when there was an absence of rule and order, when Alfred could sleep until midday and laze around until the next sunrise and when he didn't have to make excuses to escape Arthur's impossible orders but they only happen when the master of the house wasn't around.

Tonight was heavily authoritarian.

"Well, I'm sorry _Your Highness_," Alfred put down the bags on the countertop beside the obsidian ashtray sheltering the growing pile of cardiovascular illness. "I wasn't informed that you're on a strictno-overly-salted-greasy-potatoes diet at all."

He sighed in visible frustration and rummaged inside the bags to expose two yellow trinkets covered in transparent plastic bags.

"I even bought one of these cute little fellas for you before those kiddies hoarded them away! Aren't I nice?" Alfred's lips diminished into a pout.

Arthur had a slow drag of his cigarette while he kept an eye on his companion who was giddily freeing the goofy, nearly hairless yellow creatures from their wrappers. They stared back at Arthur with those huge owlish eyes and creepy smiles, secretly saying _We will ruin everything you believe in_.

Good heavens, even Alfred wasn't spared from the mania! The boy had been shaking his hips and humming _BA BA BA_ _BABANANA_ _BA BA BA_ _BABANANA_ _NA NA NA AHH POTATO NA AH AH _repeatedlyfor a week now spontaneous to his morning chores and shower time, enough times to rattle Arthur out of his mind.

Arthur puffed and admired the cloud of smoke gracefully uncurling in the air. "I never thought I was living with an adult-sized child all along."

It caught Alfred in the middle of wolfing down his double cheeseburger and he hesitated for a second then opened his mouth again to speak. "A simple 'thank you' will suffice." He batted his eyelashes. "I know you like to have one too."

"Whatever," Arthur rolled his eyes, stubbing out yet another shrunken fag against the ashtray.

He fished the box of lung cancer from his back pocket to light another stick and before any of them realized, bemused blue eyes were caught in a permanent gaze on the Brit as he expertly plucked the emerging stick between his teeth and lips.

"What are you up to when I'm not around?" Arthur asked as he lit the stick, absentmindedly snapping Alfred from the hypnosis.

He did what Dr. Honda told him to – find something to occupy himself and get rid of unnecessary thoughts. He stayed outside his own house as much as possible, high hopes on the boy already evaporated into the atmosphere the next time he passes through the threshold but to his dismay, he always found him present like a brand new set of furniture he had to get accustomed to.

Alfred shrugged. "Nothing much, just the stuffs you told me to."

Static filled Arthur's ears when he heard the words and the unsettling noise almost made him jump out of his seat and curl up on the floor. "Ugh, will you stop using that word?"

"What word?" Alfred asked, wondering why the Brit had that sudden agonized look in his face.

"_Stuffs_," Arthur blurted the word that the American was so fond of abusing, blurted it with irrevocable disdain that the word was probably more polluted than the smoke that escaped his mouth.

Alfred knit his eyebrows. "What's wrong with it?"

His heart sank for the 4253456948620th time. Arthur sure knows how to make him feel like shit, like everything he did – realigning the fixtures, singing in the shower, laughing, breathing – was a mortal sin. And now, everything he said was blasphemy!

"The word is nonexistent!" Arthur argued with furious hand gestures. "Hell, it doesn't even deserve a plural form. It doesn't even mean anything at all!"

Alfred coughed as the secondhand smoke invaded his nostrils. He had to take his eyeglasses off once in a while to wipe away the accumulating fog that kept interrupting his vision. Sticks and stones may break his bones but Arthur's smoking wouldn't spare even the inanimate, lungless objects from ill health.

"The last time I checked the dictionary it was there!" he countered.

"Oh is that so?" Green eyes widened in feigned surprise. Arthur crossed his arms in a challenging gesture. "Go ahead then. Educate me."

Can this conversation get any more trivial? Alfred shook his head but stomped out of the kitchen anyway to retrieve a dictionary (straight from his untouched box, by the way) and began reciting the definitions of the word in criticism.

"Still, it doesn't mean anything to me," Arthur slid down from the swivel chair and strutted to the fridge.

Here we go again. Alfred's invalid argument and Arthur's insufferable rules.

Since time immemorial, (that's how long it felt like to Alfred) they had burning debates of language and cultural differences. It was as frustrating as being taught by someone the proper way of writing his own name.

Arthur insisted that what Alfred called cookies must be called biscuits _inside his territory_ and the same should be followed with things such as 'chips', 'crisps', 'fringe' and all the others else he would be thrown into the bottomless pit of British wrath.

In the end, the constant rule was simple: Arthur is right, Alfred is wrong.

Alfred just didn't know what spirit possessed him one day when he decided to learn the British spelling – the words with _s _instead of the abrasive_ z, _words with_ ou _instead of just _o_. He didn't want his housemate to know that British way was rubbing off his defiant Americanism but it couldn't be helped now that Arthur saw Alfred's note plastered on the fridge door, handwritten large and bold right in front of his face:

_9 o'clock in the mourning_

Had Arthur been sipping his coke, he could've choked and spurted the contents all over the floor until it was a hilarious mess.

"So I wasn't wrong about living with an adult-sized child!" Arthur wheezed for oxygen. "An adult-sized preschooler to be exact!"

Alfred felt all his blood rush to his face. He tore down the paper from the fridge door. "D-don't be such a smart-ass!"

Arthur's face was also burning red as he couldn't contain his laughter and leaned against the fridge for support.

"Meanie!"

The younger blond never imagined that the scowling British pin cushion could laugh outrageously hard and even if he did, he never dreamed it to be by making a clown out of himself.

Arthur spoke when he finally got a grip of the situation, wiping the happy tears that rolled down his eyes. "I'll never get why you Americans find it necessary to butcher your own language, _our_ language. Is it really necessary to rebel too much?" He shook his head and spread his arms in the air for emphasis. "Preposterous!"

"Oh I could've guessed!" Alfred rolled his eyes, trying to gain composure and redeem himself from the abyss of humiliation. "You British always tell us we're wrong no matter what."

Arthur chuckled and retreated to the living room. "No, you're wrong there!"

The Brit needed to pack for another weekend and as terribly as Alfred wanted to deny it: he would be missed.

* * *

"You like it?"

Arthur was at a total loss of words.

Over the weekend, Alfred finished 'reconstructing' the abandoned alley and now that Arthur had risen from God knows where – from the pits of Tartarus, maybe? – it was about time to know if his efforts were worth anything or nothing at all.

"How… how did you do it?"

Alfred tentatively smiled at the inquiry.

Arthur always ordered the boy to do things how he wanted them done but to see the house arranged in his absolute liking was a little unthinkable.

"Uh, with the help of my innate awesomeness?"

The Brit nudged him in the ribs. "Git."

Alfred snickered. "Shall I take it as a compliment?"

Arthur was fond of abusing the three-letter word just as much as Alfred was with _stuff_ and he couldn't question that? Unfair!

He scratched the back of his head, hesitant. "I was having second thoughts about redecorating it because you never really told me to touch that part of the house, yeah? I mean it's not like I'll ever have enough of your scolding but I decided to give it a try anyway."

"I-I don't mind, really," Arthur said, eyes growing accustomed to the agreeable upgrade. "I just didn't have time to do it myself, I guess."

The corner glowed to life. The busted bulbs that he never bothered to replace were swapped with vines of fairy lights that lined the walls, stretching through the shelves and bookcases. A little feminine, but the entire arrangement remained perfectly gender-neutral.

The bookshelf was no longer handicapped and stood well-founded, giving home to Arthur's now alphabetically orchestrated books. On the next shelf were Arthur's unicorn collection and figurines of other magical creatures, positioned in harmony. Alfred once made a taunting comment about it but swore never to do it again when Arthur asked him to drag all his things out of the house.

Gracing the topmost shelf were sculpted marble angels like the unfinished one at the studio, which used to lay wilting with broken wings. Below were their minion toys, sitting goofy and dorky and cute together. Alfred was determined to build his own army of minions, it seemed.

If Arthur had the chance to redecorate the once-neglected corner, it would turn out just the way Alfred did it. He had to give credit to the boy for a good job fixing the things around the house that he wasn't able to pay attention to in the past months. Seeing his home after a tiresome weekend from work could never be more rewarding.

"Thank you, Alfred," Arthur said softly, holding back a smile.

"I'm sorry, what was that?" Alfred asked, leaning closer towards the other.

Arthur snorted. "I said 'thank you', prat. I lived long enough to learn manners, if that's what you're thinking."

Alfred giggled and reached down to ruffle the Brit's sandy blond hair. "You're welcome, Artie!"

Arthur wanted to point a finger on what made his blood boil: being called that ridiculous nickname or being reminded of who was taller between the two of them, but he couldn't place it. Before he could protest, Alfred bounced back to the living room.

"Hey, I'll be out tomorrow night," he said, strapping the guitar on his torso.

"Gig?" Arthur carried his duffle bag inside the bedroom.

"Yeah, a lovely lady's sweet sixteen." Alfred wiggled his eyebrows. "Don't miss me too much, 'kay?"

"Like hell I will," Arthur stuck out his tongue and crossed his arms, leaning against the wall facing the American. "Don't tell me you're singing the Banana song with your band."

Alfred threw his head back in laughter. "You know me too well!"

He turned his back on his sole audience and began snapping. After a few seconds of humming, he strummed his guitar and sang.

_When Rome's in ruins  
We are the lions  
Free of the coliseums._

_In poison places,_  
_We are anti-venom,_  
_We're the beginning of the end_

_Tonight the foxes hunt the hounds,_  
_And it's all over now before it has begun,_  
_We've already won._

_We are wild, we are like young volcanoes_  
_We are wild, Americana, exotica_  
_Do you wanna feel a little beautiful baby? Yeah!_

It was only then when Alfred wrapped his head around the fact that Arthur was jumping on the couch, singing along and strumming his own acoustic guitar the boy never knew he had.

Day by day Alfred learned his housemate a little more. Tonight, Arthur was a mere young blood caged inside the never-ending teenage life with no intention breaking away at all. His laugh lines were visible under the playful fluorescent lights, his smile reaching his eyes, radiating through his limitless soul.

Arthur was just like him, auspiciously human and probably went through the same human things he had.

Arthur Kirkland wasn't so bad after all.

_Come on  
Make it easy, say I never mattered  
Run it up the flagpole  
We will teach you how to make boys next door  
Out of assholes _

On that last word, Alfred pointed a finger at Arthur and the Brit displayed his dirty finger as response. Together they laughed.

_Tonight the foxes hunt the hounds,  
And it's all over now before it has begun,  
We've already won. _

They were harassing the couch like children, laughing and singing like it was the only thing that mattered, like it was more important than proliferating nuclear weapons or saving the world from the global financial crisis. They kept bouncing up and down. Up and down. Up and down…

_We are wild, we are like young volcanoes  
We are wild, Americana, exotica  
Do you wanna feel a little beautiful baby? Yeah! _

Another repeat of the effervescent chorus and their song ended, sending them limply panting on the same couch they tortured. They were fishes out of water and they remained that way for the next thirty seconds, concentrating on the rhythm of their breathing.

"You're really good!"

"For someone who loves singing the Banana song?"

"No, I'm serious! It's quite surprising you're not making lots of money with it, really."

"Just unlucky, I guess?"

Alfred took interest in his guitar as he couldn't meet the spark on those gleaming emeralds. "I want to play my own music."

For a moment, Arthur remained silent and fiddled with the strap on his shoulder. "Remember the Dutch friend I told you about, the one I'm going to New York with?"

"Yeah?"

"He's working at a recording studio in LA and he has a lot of friends. They can help you chase it," Arthur said, green eyes searching for their blue counterparts. "I can take you there to meet them."

Alfred froze at the statement. "Really, you'll do that for me?"

"Only after you pay your dues," Arthur said with a stern look. "I don't like the idea of your cops running after my arse."

All at once, Alfred's face glowed brighter than the Times Square at Christmas time.

"That's the nicest thing you'll ever do for me, Artie!" He said. The sudden thrill coursed through his system and made him fling his arms around Arthur, enveloping the older man into a bone-crushing hug.

"One, don't call me Artie," Arthur managed to mumble under the younger man's iron arms. "Two, let go. You're crushing me."

Alfred slipped his arms from Arthur's shoulder the same manner as his face turned red, slowly and delicately. "Uh, yeah," he said. "Sorry."

They scrambled to their feet but Alfred still couldn't believe his ears at the agreement. "Promise?"

Arthur turned around to meet Alfred's hopeful face which was filled with childish charm more than ever. Despite all those clumsy work and immature complaints, he could never really stay mad at him. He could try but no matter how hard he did, the idiot would find a way or another to reverse that frown etched on his face before the day ends.

Then he realized Alfred's pinkie finger was extended towards him, awaiting him to knot his.

"I am absolutely_ not_ doing the pinkie swear with you," Arthur said, his face tinted slight pink as well. "But yes, I promise."

The next thing he knew, Arthur was hugged like he was the remaining teddy bear in the earth after outliving the zombie apocalypse. He paddled his legs but it was no use, his feet couldn't touch the floor.

"Thank you, Artie!"

Alfred's feather breath prickled against Arthur's neck and the Brit flailed around to protest his lack of personal space but the American just laughed it off, knocking the air out of him.

"You twit, put me down this instant!" The Brit struggled, but instead, he was met with those big blue eyes, bottomless pools of excitement and wonder under lazy golden strands.

If he dared to look into those eyes just a little longer, he was sure to drown.

Finally, Arthur was planted back to the floor, to reality, when Alfred's phone rang. The boy excused himself and Arthur watched his retreating back, also checking his phone. One message.

_You missed your appointment today._

He slipped the phone back to his pocket. It took less than a minute before Alfred was galloping to his side.

"Looks like LA has to wait for tonight," Alfred announced, grinning ear to ear. "I got a message from Gilbert. Ludwig's throwing a party tonight!"

Arthur paled. Memories of their last party together plagued his brain. He knew very well what he had to deal with after that. A little more and he'd be waking up in Narnia. No, he couldn't afford another episode of mayhem.

"I-I think I'll have to pass –" Arthur said while mentally screaming.

_No no no no not again not now not ever! I don't know if I'm a Catholic or a Protestant but God if you're there please send help! _

But Alfred already expressed he wouldn't take 'no' for an answer. "Don't try that on me! You're the one who gets drunk almost every night!"

"B-b-but I'm… I'm ill, yes that's it! I'm not feeling very well tonight, Alfred. You go there and have fun yourself," Arthur said, pulling his most convincing sickly face.

Alfred raised an eyebrow. "You didn't look sick when you were jumping on the couch."

"I felt it just now, I feel like I'm running a fever," Arthur placed a hand on his neck, mentally strategizing how he could crawl inside his studio and lock himself overnight if that would save him from the impending episode of delusion.

A hint of concern flickered across the American's face but it melted the very second he brushed a hand on the other's forehead. Average human temperature, unless he was under another category. "No, you're not. Not even close."

"Er… L-let me just look for my coat then -"

No need. Alfred was already waiting by the door, both of their coats slung in on one arm.

Arthur threw his head back, forsaken by the heavens.

"What?" Alfred asked. "You don't need that posh Burberry of yours, do you? It's just a house party."

"Alfred, I –"

"Listen, Artie," Alfred gripped Arthur's shoulders with a little firmness, intense eyes fixed on the others' with undivided attention. "I don't know what you're so worried about but I'm telling you: you don't have to worry about anything. I'm with you and I'll take care of you even if you'll never ask me to."

Alfred flashed him a bright, confident smile. "Trust me, I'm your hero! Remember last time?"

Arthur's stomach churned at the question. Right at that moment, he felt like he was running a fever for real. He heaved a sigh.

"Now, put this on and off we'll go!" Insistently, Alfred offered Arthur his overcoat and even helped him putting it on.

"Hey, I hadn't had my say to this!" A little too late, Arthur, a little too late.

"You'll thank me later!"

To his surprise, the younger man took him by the hand and led him out the door. The sheer contact sent electricity to his skin, sparks tingling in his bloodstream. Alfred's hand was warm and soft against his own; almost comforting that he didn't flinch away.

They marched their way down the compressed and faintly-lit staircase, Arthur's shoulder brushing against Alfred's arm. Through the bulletproof silence, the boy's words echoed in Arthur's ears, playing on repeat.

_Trust me, I'm your hero!_

Arthur studied their hands underneath, still intertwined. He then looked up and found the idiot's candlelight grin shining in the dark.

_Are you?_

* * *

**AUTHOR'S NOTE:**

_Here, have a taste of Alfred's POV for a change. Can you smell the progressive romance? _

_I know there's no way that Despicable Me is released around autumn but the idea of Alfred going out of his way just to get his hands on the Happy Meal toy and singing the Banana and Potato song is just irresistible! And I'm not even sorry. Haha._

**_Dark Fenrir:_**_ Here's the second deal I've been telling you about. ^_^_

_Alfred and Arthur's duet was Young Volcanoes by Fall Out Boy. I fell in love with the song long before I even discovered the, er, disturbingly beautiful music video. If you haven't heard it yet, I suggest you do! :D Though I'd rather you listen to the song first before watching the music video, but if you already seen it, I can only feel sorry for your soul. _


	5. Run!

**CHAPTER 5**

**Run!**

"Shut your big mouth and stay still. I got this."

"But it hurts like hell! C'mon just strip it off already!"

"Goddammit, Alfred! I said shut your stupid mouth or so help me I will leave you wallowing in hell!"

Alfred knew better than challenging the Brit's words. Another word and Alfred Foster Jones would be reduced into nothing but human rubble rocketing into the atmosphere, so he pursed his lips like the Brit had demanded for what seemed like eons ago.

"And stop looking at me like that, I'm pressured!" Arthur scolded and sighed with a quivering breath. How could he proceed with the task at hand if those misty ultramarines kept distracting him? "You don't have to make it as difficult as it is, you know."

Alfred was about to hide his distressed face under his free arm when – without any warning from the Brit – a tormenting, abrasive sensation tore away from his skin. The American let out a deafening, undignified shriek.

In that moment of unprecedented pain and humiliation, he made a mental never-to-do-again list:

1. Never permit your sudden urges (e.g. repairing your timeworn guitar case) to lure you out of a pleasurable wedding reception, especially when you know you're already getting tipsy;

2. Never lock yourself inside a storeroom full of life-threatening equipment that drunk people should never lay their fingers on;

3. Never come near a lethal weapon called superglue because there's a 99.99% chance of accidentally spilling it into your skin while spontaneously (and tactlessly) coming into contact with painfully coarse objects such as sand paper, and finally;

4. Never _ever_ call a grouchy, paranoid and equally intoxicated Brit for help.

Some minutes ago, the two of them were laughing and sharing a toast with friends at their round table, taking in the blissful sight of the merriment by the seashore. Alfred and his band mates just finished performing before the amused crowd and were succeeded by another band, while Arthur – the official photographer – was having a short break from his job.

From their circle they watched the couples sweeping through the dance floor. Gilbert and Elizaveta sat contentedly at their own table, relishing their first little moments as newlyweds.

Alfred decided to excuse himself in the middle of it all and told their friends he needed to do something urgent. Their friends were taken aback about what could be so life-and-death with his guitar case but they let him go without question; the moment of truth came after a short while when Arthur received a message, asking to help him out of his 'sticky situation'.

Upon finding his flatmate sprawled and slipping in and out of consciousness on the storeroom's floor, the Brit was torn between bursting into laughter or irritation. Just what the bloody hell was he thinking?!

Arthur needed a couple of seconds to absorb Alfred's predicament as he waved and smiled at the sight of his savior. It took all of Arthur's willpower to suppress his laughter and just free the American from the evil arsenal of sandpapers and superglue.

There was no petroleum jelly and the nearest hospital was ten miles away so Arthur considered the alternative and looked for Elizaveta's stylist to ask for some acetone. By the time he reached Alfred, the superglue was rapidly drying into his skin and there was no less painful way to get the job done.

"There," Arthur said like a doctor announcing a successful operation.

Alfred's face was red and his eyes were wet with tears. He sniffed with relief and uttered a muffled _thank you_. Arthur offered a hand to help Alfred get to his feet and rolled his sleeve to cover the scalded skin.

The walk back to the reception seemed longer with Arthur telling him how to tend the injury, scolding him like an overly protective mother.

* * *

Alfred and Arthur returned to the party like nothing happened.

"Oh dear, what happened to the two of you?"

Or so they thought.

With a look of apprehension, Tino examined Alfred and Arthur. They were gone for nearly half an hour and approached the table both drenched with sweat.

"Gilbert was looking for you, Al. He was calling all his grade school and high school friends. You too, Arthur. They needed the photographer."

The American was the one to respond first. "I got lost while looking for the storeroom – this is one hell of a compound, I have to say – so I called Artie for help. He lent me a hand fixing my guitar case." He nodded and scratched the back of his neck.

"Y-yes. That's right," Arthur said, avoiding the sight of Alfred's face and kept a white knuckle grip on his jeans.

Their friends said nothing but the expression on their faces filled the silence. It was that of a teacher's, watching first graders tell a lie for the first time.

"Well then, take your seats," Mathias broke the awkward silence. "You missed a few shots already!"

While talking, the Dane stealthily managed to sliver his arm around Lukas' shoulders but before he could cling tight, the trick soon failed as Lukas swatted his arm away.

"Ow!"

The rest of the round table roared with laughter.

"You know how couples like those end up," Feliciano said, grinning and resting his chin on his palm. "Gilbert and Elizaveta used to be like that."

Antonio nodded. "True, but Gilbert only had the balls to face his feelings after Elizaveta broke up with Roderich."

"I thought it would take him forever," Ludwig sighed, placing his empty glass of beer beside Feliciano's plate. "He used to say he would rather be a bachelor than say 'I do' if it's Elizaveta he'll be with at the altar."

"But look at where they are now," Tino smiled, watching Gilbert and Elizaveta talking, gazing into each other's eyes as if they could see no one else except their significant other. "Who's next, guys?"

Silence fell between them while the Middle Ages-themed gathering appeared to be ethereal under the golden rays of light, illuminating the happy revelers – the gentlemen who changed into their buttoned down shirts with sleeves rolled up to their elbows and the ladies in pastel dresses with ribbons, laces and flowers.

Alfred assessed each person sitting at their round table and realized an awkward truth – their round table was for ten people and eight of them were couples sitting together: Tino and Berwald, Mathias and Lukas, Antonio and Lovino and Ludwig and Feliciano. Where was the table for single people? Alfred and Arthur needed to transfer there. Quickly.

"Definitely not us," Lukas said, breaking Alfred's chain of thought. He crossed his arms against his chest. "Mathias and I need more time to prepare for that after we finish setting up the bakeshop."

The Dane's blue eyes lit up with anticipation. "Really? You're okay with that?"

"It's either that or you're deaf," Lukas retorted.

Mathias grinned ear to ear and pecked his Norwegian in the lips.

There came more wedding talks, topics that didn't concern Alfred. His attention was a butterfly fluttering away from his seat, around the waltzing couples, to the amiable waves and back in position when Feliciano called his name.

"How about you, Al?" the younger Italian asked. "Any special someone as of the moment?"

Alfred blinked a few times, his mouth agape as he struggled for an answer. "W-what? Uh, yeah. I mean, _none_! None. N-no special someone."

He smiled, if that could help make his answer sound more intelligent.

"Oh? That's a shame," Feliciano said with a small pout. "But I hope you're not as stubborn as our Arthur here."

The Brit rolled his eyes, slammed his glass of beer against the innocent table and preempted any further lectures from the love gurus. "If you people are going to set me up for my wedding day, I'm sure as hell to say 'no'."

"Now that's a bad-ass," Mathias commented.

"You're such a heartless monster!" Alfred said.

"Don't worry you wouldn't have to see it. I'll make sure you won't get invited," Arthur replied.

The rest of their friends let out a loud 'oooh'.

"See, guys? That's what I've been telling you. Tino, Lukas and Arthur get along for a reason and it's called badassery -" Mathias didn't finish as he was elbowed at the ribs.

The music switched tempo from mellow to lively and even without hearing the first line of its lyrics, Feliciano grasped Ludwig's hand.

"Hey, that's our song!" he said and blazed a trail in the middle of the gathering.

"I'm jealous!" Tino said. Berwald didn't have to look at those beseeching periwinkles to take his lover to their first dance at the party.

The remaining couples followed the lead and left Alfred and Arthur to themselves.

"So," Alfred said. "Who do you think will marry next?"

The Brit hadn't said much after returning to the table, Alfred noticed. Maybe it was also because he didn't find the topics interesting, but then again if that's what they always talk about, it must be horribly sad to be the only one in his set of friends not to have a partner.

"Had I been a minister, I would've had those idiots married a long time ago," Arthur said. "Well, Mathias and Lukas already made it clear that they won't be next in line…"

He took another sip of his refilled glass of beer. "I never heard Tino and Berwald talk about it," he continued. "They seemed to avoid it like a plague. Same goes with Antonio and Lovino."

"How about Ludwig and Feliciano?" Alfred asked.

Arthur pointed at their German friend who had his arms wrapped around his Italian lover. "Did you see how Ludwig was looking at his brother while Gil was exchanging vows with Eliza?" he asked. "That's how someone looks at his own brother who finally found happiness in another person. And Ludwig wants to feel the same happiness for himself.

"I think they'll go next. Wanna bet?"

"Nah. Can't risk losing a couple of bucks no more," Alfred said and revealed a bottle of coke from underneath the table. "Let's just play truth or dare."

"What are you? Some teenage girl?" Arthur scoffed. "And how can you play with that bottle with only two persons, Einstein?"

"Oh come on, don't be such a fun sucker!" Alfred said.

He thought it was a hopeless case as Arthur's pierced eyebrows were knitted together, but the Brit sighed and said, "Alright. But with two conditions: no truth, just dare. And do you see that tree over there?"

Arthur pointed at the palm tree a few meters from them.

Alfred nodded.

"If you glue yourself into that tree tonight, I will not help you out and you'll have to find your way home all by yourself."

The American laughed and said, "Deal."

The sun was bidding its warm goodbye. Some guests remained in the circle of slow dance while some changed to their swimwear and waded through the sea. Alfred and Arthur decided they had nothing to do there as their friends were either socializing with other couples or missing in action and they knew what it meant. They also avoided the waters, due to Arthur's request.

"Since you're so persistent, I'll make the first dare. I dare you..." Arthur said, looking around and drumming his fingertips together. "To break into that party."

He pointed at the other wedding reception beside this one, which seemed to have started later than Gilbert and Elizaveta's.

Alfred got to his feet. "We're running out of booze anyway. I'll do it!"

"Naughty boy," Arthur smirked and followed him.

This one had a rather outlandish theme compared to Gilbert and Elizaveta's. It was a crossroad of the East and the West, a cordial mix of Chinese ornaments and Russian music.

Everyone was busy chatting at the tables or dancing in the center of the cheerful crowd, making it effortless for Alfred to step over the rope without anyone noticing.

"I dare you to crash it with me," Alfred said with a dangerous glint in his eyes.

Arthur reciprocated the smile and took the dare. "Very well."

The reception was by far one of the most crowded they had ever been to and most of the guests were kin to the newlyweds – half of them were Asians while the other half were mostly Eastern Europeans.

Little did Arthur know, Alfred's momentary silence already stood for a bucket of criticisms. The younger man pointed at one of the grooms, the Russian one. "That woolen scarf for the seaside, really?"

Arthur chuckled. "When did you start having a fashion sense?" He wrapped his fingers around Alfred's raised arm. "We're not here to catch attention so put your chubby finger down."

The older blond kept his eye on the table of the newlyweds, on the Asian groom, specifically. There was something familiar about him; the Brit might have seen him before, or he might have known someone who looked like him. Arthur took an invitation from one of the empty tables and found the name of the grooms: Ivan Braginsky and Wang Yao.

That's it – the other groom is Dr. Honda's stepbrother. Arthur remembered Kiku telling him about his stepbrothers, that they didn't get along very well since childhood, especially Yao.

While Arthur was preoccupied playing Sherlock Holmes, Alfred had his own observations about the party. He tried not to pay attention to the Russian groom; just by the looks of it, Alfred knew that he was the kind of person he wouldn't bother befriending. But if there's one thing Alfred would admit as admirable, it would be the astounding quantity of vodka. There was so much vodka in such a small party they could drain all the sea water in that beach and replace it with vodka, and it would still overflow like a tsunami.

"Hey, Al."

"Alfred."

Arthur yanked the sleeve of his shirt to snap him out of his daydream.

"Yeah?"

"I dare you to steal some drinks."

And so Alfred did.

Stealthy and suave, he slinked to the bar counter and went back to his companion with two big glasses of clear Russian liquor. They shared a toast with the guests at the nearest table and the music turned upbeat, ending the series of slow dances. The guests hurriedly left the table for the dance floor.

Alfred sipped his drink and leant closer to Arthur, his lips a few centimeters from Arthur's ear. "I dare you to dance with me."

The center was swarming with more people and no one would easily spot their intrusion so they joined the wild crowd. Music blaring and drinks spilling on their hands, they danced together and banged their heads like there was no tomorrow until they were red and soaking with sweat. When they felt like the world was spinning around them, they agreed to make their leave.

"Artie, before we leave," Alfred pushed his glasses against the bridge of his slippery nose. "I want to bring justice and freedom into this party."

"What are you talking about?" Arthur was sure as hell who was more stoned between the two of them.

"It's unfair to have so much vodka at one party," Alfred pressed his pointed finger against Arthur's lips before the Brit could say something else. "Watch."

Behind them stood the vodka skyscraper where Alfred had devoted much of his attention since they meddled into the party. The American tilted against the stacks of bottles and forced them away until they crumbled into the ground like ruins of an earthquake. Broken glass and spilled liquid slithered through the sand.

The party halted to a full stop. The music hushed, as did the people. Alfred and Arthur both felt a hundred pairs of petrified eyes directed at them.

"Run!"

Alfred snatched Arthur's hand and together they ran with their hearts racing along. Their feet seemed to have a mind of their own, taking them somewhere far from the wreckage, somewhere far from the ridiculous confrontation.

They stumbled to the ground, Arthur landing flat against Alfred's chest.

The Brit gave it a heavy pound with the palm of his hand; green eyes wide and glossy. "You crazy boy!"

Alfred never laughed so hard his entire life.

* * *

"I'm still wondering how you survived all these years without having to cook for yourself."

Two days after that eventful afternoon and they were back to business.

The thought crossed Alfred's mind as he was reminded that he'd never seen his housemate touch the stove except when making tea or coffee, or when lighting cigarettes; but then again he didn't eat much, or at least he didn't see Arthur eat as often as he did.

Alfred and Arthur resumed to their morning tasks at the kitchen. The Brit sat by the counter, Doctor Martens crossed on the marble top, skillfully twirling a knife with his index finger like a lead character in one of those assassin films while waiting for the coffee to brew. The American stood by the stove with a spatula in one hand, guarding the chicken nuggets until they were golden brown. He had an hour before leaving for work and Arthur was a boss of his own time so he made the Brit sit by the counter and wait for breakfast.

Arthur smirked and waved the knife. "Sorcery."

"Ah, I should've known," Alfred sniggered and set the plate of dinosaur-shaped chicken nuggets on the counter.

Yesterday was a Monday and Alfred skipped work – getting up from the couch felt like balancing a sixteen-wheeler truck on his head. Arthur also didn't have the strength to leave the house, but from the dark circles around his eyes, Alfred could tell he'd been working overnight in front of his computer. They looked like shit – those were four words plucked from Arthur's vocabulary garden.

But today they looked a lot better. Taking turns with the bathroom did the trick. Fortunately, they didn't feel squeamish at the same time, otherwise they had to share their privacy: one of them hugging the toilet seat and the other one the sink.

They figured it was the revenge of vodka but considering the barrel of laughs that they had, they absolutely found no reason to be sorry. Arthur had extra fun recounting Alfred's superglue incident and reenacting his 'justice and freedom' lines. The American denied them to death but Arthur had more than enough to prove them all.

"My mum never let me in the kitchen again after I nearly set our apartment to ashes," the Brit laughed to himself.

"C'mon it couldn't be that bad!"

"But that's the truth!"

Alfred needed to turn around to check whether Arthur was humoring him or not. He resumed setting the plates and the cutlery on the counter.

"Besides, I always had someone to cook for me," Arthur said. "Right now I have a minion – that's you – and when I'm alone, there are always a number of good restaurants to choose from. Back at home, we have someone who can do the cooking if Mum doesn't feel like preparing dishes and during university days, I had Fran–"

He bit his lip.

Alfred thought he lost sight of the knife cutting deeply through Arthur's skin, but there was no blood, only white knuckles wrapped around the knife. Arthur's face was a smooth, emotionless mask.

"Who?"

From the living room, the phone rang and shattered the eerie silence.

"Must be Kiku." Arthur uncrossed his ankles and fled to the living room.

End of discussion.

* * *

"You never missed our appointments before," Dr. Honda said. "Not without giving me a notice."

Arthur sighed and shifted in his seat. "B-blame _him_! Remember when I told you that he was my neighbor?"

He didn't wait for Dr. Honda's nod to go on. "Days after that, he knocked on my door and asked if he could stay in my place for a while. I took him in and now he's my _flatmate_."

A frown formed in Dr. Honda's thin lips. "Have you been drinking often these past few days?"

Arthur groaned and collapsed on the couch, face down on the plush mint bunny. He knew he had bad drinking issues but he was unconditionally certain that they had nothing to do with this.

"I. Am. Not. Out. Of. My. Mind," Arthur dissected the words through gritted teeth and bolted upright to face the doctor again. "_He _is out of my mind! He's out in our world, Kiku. The. Real. World. People can see him, _our _friends can see him, they can touch him. They talk to him, we party together. He's friends with my friends, I'm telling you!"

There was not a slight hint of induced reaction in Dr. Honda's face. Arthur's shoulders slumped with disappointment.

"If you don't believe me, fine," Arthur said. "But don't call Mum until tomorrow."

The Brit felt the pang of revived betrayal from their last meeting, but he had a plan to sort this dilemma once and for all.

"Let's have lunch together. Bring Heracles with you."

* * *

**AUTHOR'S NOTE: **

_Guess who's back from the deaaad~_

_I have three important announcements:_

_1) __I am so sorry if it took me ages to update. This was one helluva chapter to write, I have to say. I had a hard time writing it srsly, but hey I survived! I hope I wrote this chapter decent enough. Pfft._

_2) __This is just the first half of the update – I decided to split it because apparently it already reached 8k words? The next half will be coming soon. Moment of truth for Kiku. (And a little smut) wtf_

_3) __If you're into domestic/university AU, you might want to check out my drabble 'Twenty Months'? I've been thinking about making it into a multi-chaptered story and if you guys happened to be interested I might consider writing more. _

**_I'd like to thank Lunar Iris for making this chapter 857528495 times better despite her busy schedule. :') _**


	6. Dice with demons

**CHAPTER 6**

**Dice with demons**

Alfred used to tell himself that he'd give anything to see his British housemate swapping his standard punk guise for something that would make him look more… human, just for the heck of it. And, the prophetic day had come, he decided that he would rather be damned than admit the fact that he was having a hard time taking his eyes off him.

Today, Arthur Kirkland looked… different. Unrecognizable.

The American wrestled with his brain once in a while, commanding his eyes to sail somewhere else. He could only imagine the horror if those forest greens caught his wandering, pretending glance.

He knew it was going to be special when the Brit asked him last night to come with him to a lunch meeting the next day (it was Alfred's day off and he had nothing else to do). It would be at some fancy restaurant downtown and he was told to be in his classic black coat and tie, one of those few ensembles he had for formal occasions. But he didn't expect himself gawking and internally choking when Arthur stepped out of his bedroom in a tailored navy blue suit and leather dress shoes with his ever-messy blond hair slicked back. No earrings, not a trace of punk. Just all posh and tidy-looking; a polar opposite Arthur Kirkland. He could've been the Arthur Kirkland of a parallel universe.

Alfred didn't know how long he'd been holding his breath. Leaning forward an inch or two and his face would touch Arthur's. They never shared such little space before, after all.

The oblivious Brit paid closer attention to the boy's necktie, fixing it and reprimanding him about tying it improperly. He already told Alfred about it when he did it for him at Gilbert and Elizaveta's but it turned out that the boy needed more guidance. Who would've thought that the punk knew proper grooming and etiquette better than he did?

"It's not a date, alright? We're just having lunch with a friend," Arthur cleared his throat. "He wants to make sure that I'm not living with someone crazier than I am."

His lips curved into what Alfred deemed as a nervous smile.

The boy knew well that it was a sensitive issue to discuss and he didn't attempt to pry when Arthur told him that he was seeing a therapist. He didn't miss the spark of discomfort in his eyes upon disclosing the topic, but somehow, Alfred felt a surge of consolation being entrusted with such a strict personal matter.

"I thought he's your therapist?" Alfred asked, silently praying he would choose unoffending words all throughout the day.

Arthur's fingers left Alfred's chest; the tie was done. His piercing eyes collided with Alfred's avoidant ones.

"Can't he be both?"

* * *

Kiku couldn't believe his own eyes.

That young man sitting opposite Arthur was the walking, talking, laughing, breathing version of Arthur's portraits – Alfred Foster Jones himself!

Arthur and his new housemate arrived five minutes after him and Heracles and they spent their first half hour with pleasantries while enjoying the food. The four of them appeared to be exceptionally comfortable together, interacting so casually, that people around them might have thought they were very close friends recently reunited.

Kiku already established to Alfred that he and Arthur were very good friends from the Brit's first days in the US. From that leeway, he was also able to ask Arthur how he'd been doing and what he'd been up to without giving away suspicion. Kiku introduced Heracles to Alfred (as it was needless for Arthur having met him a few times already) and let his Greek boyfriend talk about his latest archeological trip in the Middle East. Like a flowing river, their talk kept pace and Kiku always caught his gaze returning to their new acquaintance.

The trifling conversational lapse gave him the chance to ask Alfred more about himself as he remembered the boy hadn't spoken much when the topic switched from that first night he and Arthur met (Kiku couldn't thank him enough for what he had done for Arthur).

"So, Alfred," Kiku said. "Tell us more about yourself. What do you do?"

The American flashed his 'aw shucks' smile and forked his mango crêpe. "Well… right now, I'm working at a coffee shop just two blocks away. Sometimes, I play with a band but that's totally irregular. Though if I were given the chance I'd want to focus on my music."

"Is that so?" Kiku asked, glancing at Arthur. "How long have you been playing music?"

"I've been playing all my life," Alfred said. "Back in my first foster home, I was taught how to play the piano before I could even read and write."

"How impressive," Heracles smiled and spoke with his casual somnolent voice. "What other instruments do you play?"

"I also play drums, the flute, the violin but I prefer the guitar."

"Really? I always wanted to play those instruments," Kiku said. "Any favorite bands?"

"Gee, that's a lot," Alfred said. "But My Chemical Romance and Fall Out Boy will always be my childhood heroes."

Kiku's dark eyes widened. "Cool! I like them too," he remarked. "It's such a shame that MCR had to break up. I read the news revoking the breakup but it turned out that it was an April Fool's prank."

"Yeah," Alfred frowned and sunk back to his seat.

"How many songs do you have in your iPod?"

Alfred gave that one a thought. "Hmm, I don't know. Around 3000, approximately. I try to listen to all the genres I discover."

_Overload, overload. Information overload._ Kiku's brain was on red alert.

"May I have a moment with Arthur?" Kiku tapped Arthur's arm. "Alone?"

Startled and wordless, the two other men blinked and nodded.

"Uh, yeah."

"Sure."

Alfred's heart sank. Did he say something wrong? Or was it the moment to deliberate whether he was qualified to be Arthur's housemate? Had Kiku always been so scrupulous when it came to who lived with his friend?

"Hey, Alfred," Heracles said while Arthur and Kiku excused themselves and marched towards the door. "Do you like cats?"

"Y-yeah! I'm a lover of both cats and dogs, actually…"

The stinging autumn air welcomed Arthur and Kiku as they joined the pedestrians in the bustling streets. They strode until they were out of Alfred's and Heracles' sight, not turning back. Kiku had been babbling Japanese since they made their exit.

"Just-wh- how- j-just how did that happen?!" Kiku said. He flung his arms in the air as if it would give him the answers.

"I don't know!" Arthur huffed, a cloud of anxious mist escaping his mouth. "I-I don't know! I told you! That's what I've been trying to tell you all along!"

"But- how- but he can't just come out of nowhere!"

"But that's what happened! One morning I just woke up next to him, _in_ _his bed,_ and then I found out that his apartment unit was next to mine! I've never even seen him in the apartment complex before, I swear. But my friends claim to know him longer than they know me!"

Kiku began walking in circles, a hand pressed against his temple. "People can't just step out of portraits! There has to be some scientific explanation behind all this- this occurrence!"

"I know! But what can we do? Surrender him to the Department of Science and Technology and have him dissected?" Arthur asked, gesturing Kiku to lower his voice. The passersby had been turning heads in their direction. "There must be some kind of a fairy godmother granting wishes to lonely and messed up people, I don't know!"

"This is wrong." Kiku shook his head. "Arthur, you have to report this to the police. You could be living with a criminal on the run, for all you know."

Arthur's jaw dropped. "What?! No! He can't be worse than me!"

Kiku opened his mouth to say something but Arthur secured his friend's shoulders under his hands. "Look, I know this is insane. But please, Kiku, trust me with this. "

Arthur glanced through the glass windows of the restaurant and saw Alfred talking to Heracles with such an animated smile and gestures. Then he returned his glance back to his friend, straight into his unfathomable dark brown eyes.

"Please don't ruin this for me."

The way his friend regarded him rendered Kiku speechless. He had always been worried about Arthur, regardless of his job – he was the little brother that he never had – and he wanted him to be out of harm's way. But at the same time, Kiku wanted him to be happy and that was what Kiku had seen.

There was something out of the ordinary as he caught glimpses of his friend laughing at Alfred's dorky jokes, or simply listening to Alfred talk or the way he smiled or his eyes light up when he looked at the boy – and that was something he'd never seen for the past two years that he'd known Arthur. He was bursting with contagious happiness and that was an improvement that no medication or therapy could ever provide.

* * *

"You know, even if you dress up as a vampire, they won't be able to tell the difference."

Just as how the Polyjuice Potion wears out, Arthur morphed back to his punk self for Halloween. Alfred did a quick Arthur Kirkland inventory while they journeyed to Lovino and Feliciano's place. One too many silver earrings, another piercing on the right bushy eyebrow and at the edge of his bottom lip, overlapping bracelets and a skull ring, tattered shirt under a scarf and a leather jacket, and skin-tight jeans with metal chains and haphazardly tied boots.

"Fuck you," Arthur gave him a blow in the gut and lit his third cigarette for the night.

Arthur should've been home having a horror films marathon. He had a good list of films fresh from the pirate oven but after finishing _The Woman in Black_, his housemate nagged him to go out. Taking pity on the boy who'd been white as sheet, he decided to go out with Alfred and prove to the world that they weren't hermits – it was a Friday night anyway.

They received a call the night before from Feliciano, inviting them to their annual Halloween party at their place, the pizzeria-by-day/discotheque-by-night, which was usually an exclusive party for close friends.

"_¡Hola, amigos!_" Antonio greeted them as they stepped into the front door, dressed as a vicious hunter and holding a half-empty pilsner glass. "So glad you came! Come in, come in!"

Alfred and Arthur exchanged looks before taking a step inside the haunted nightclub.

"Told you the Batman and Robin costume was a good idea," Alfred whispered.

Arthur's face went red as Antonio's tomatoes and he shoved Alfred to go inside.

Peculiar creatures with familiar faces dominated the party. There was Antonio the hunter, accompanied by an angry Italian granny. Alfred and Arthur deemed it best to avoid their direction as they had a strong feeling that the Italian granny would fire his rifle at any moment. The newlyweds were nowhere to be found; the gladiator, Ludwig, informed them that the couple was spending their honeymoon period at the Adriatic shores. Ludwig summoned Feliciano, who donned a dilapidated sort of tunic that made him look like an ancient slave, and instructed him to serve the newly-arrived guests some drinks. They were soon joined by the ghost pirates Mathias, Lukas, Berwald and Tino with whom they shared a few glasses.

In between those cheerful greetings and bantering with his friends, Arthur wondered if this was the kind of fun that he missed for the last two years while he kept himself as a recluse. He had to admit – he was glad that he came this year and he attended because… just because. He roamed around with Alfred, scouting for the midnight quirks exhibited by the drunken creatures. It was always a good source of entertainment at a party. Though there was not much to explore; some of the areas were off limits including the staircase that lead to the two residential floors upstairs: one for Antonio and Lovino and the other for Ludwig and Feliciano.

The partygoers gathered around Mathias, cheering as he attempted to do some kind of upside-down beer keg world record.

Inside the bathroom a number of people cramped up together like sardines, having a mini pool party in the bathtub. One of the ladies, the first one to get in the tub before everyone else did, was throwing a fit about the others hopping in her supposed private one-person bathtub party uninvited. Everything was as crazy as some lame high school party. Alfred and Arthur had a few drinks and smokes with the sober lot; they figured it was a little too soon for another tragic hang over. But they lost each other in the midst of the party as more people came in; it was a total riot.

Arthur ended up smoking at the patio, taking a break from the human-polluted party. He watched the star-dusted sky and waited for a shooting star to cross his line of sight – someone in the outer space might have been sending a signal about the end of the world, who knew?

He extinguished his last stick and fished inside his pocket to light another one but a booming voice disrupted his peace.

"Bored already?"

Arthur flinched. Slightly embarrassed, he plucked a stray spider toy from the cotton web above his head and hurled it at Alfred. "For fuck's sake, Alfred. Stop sprouting out of nowhere like a mushroom!"

Alfred giggled, proud of his little Halloween trick. "C'mon, follow me."

The spectacled boy wrapped his fingers around the Brit's wrist and led him back to the party, passing through the raving crowd. Arthur realized Alfred was taking him down to the basement.

"You shoot hoops?" Alfred asked, securing the door behind him and turning the dusky lights on.

The basement was actually an indoor basketball court and Alfred knew the place because Gilbert and Ludwig took him there once to have a game.

Arthur said nothing as he studied the space.

"Oh, right. You only do embroidery," Alfred said, recalling the sight of Arthur doing needlework in the living room (the punk never failed to take him by surprise). Making all those intricately embellished pillow cases must be some damn hard work.

Flustered, Arthur finally responded. "What are you trying to say? That I don't know sports?" He looked him in the eye. "This is a high school star football player you're talking to."

Alfred raised his eyebrows. He never heard him speak so confidently of himself before. Liquor must have made its way into Arthur's veins already.

"And now you're retired and you just do embroidery."

"Try me."

And their game began. Alfred picked the ball from the wood tiled-floor and started dribbling, dribbling until he lunged and aimed at the ring. A smooth three-point shot. Then it was Arthur's turn – he ran after the ball, made a figure eight with it between his legs and dunked. The younger blond smirked at his playmate's flawless move, more motivated this time now that the challenge issued. He aimed for his second shot but unfortunately missed a few centimeters shy from the ring.

Alfred kicked his shoes off and pulled his socks away.

"What are you doing?"

"Stripping. What else?"

Oh boy. There goes the twist.

Arthur looked around, taking in his surroundings as if his awareness had just come back to him after a long vacation. Most of the bulbs were dim with only the faint glow outside the little glass windows lighting up the basement. It was gloomy, though they could still see clearly. He figured it was fair enough – Arthur wasn't exactly comfortable with the idea of exposing his skin. Not at all.

The game needed a little heating up, Alfred insisted, and so they played one-on-one. Fast-paced and more intense, they quickly found themselves panting and sweating. Dribbling and running and guarding, stealing the ball from each other. Shot. Missed. Dribbled again, chased after the ball for the ring. Hearts pounding, muscles flexing. Blocking, arms stretched like a wall. They came so close to each other. So close until they were nose to nose, looking into each other's fiery eyes. Arthur was the first one to break away, feeling an unsettling sensation building in his stomach. Were those what they call butterflies? Ridiculous.

The game went on and so did the consequence. They stripped and tossed their clothes in a corner. First to go were the jackets, scarves and shirts and Alfred had no problem with that. He stripped like it was his sole purpose in life while Arthur so reluctantly took his clothes off but he couldn't make himself go against their rule.

Both of them stripped after missing their shot until they only had underwear their left. And for the last time (much to Alfred's delight), Arthur missed the ring. The Brit had to take off his last piece of clothing and admit humiliation to the cocky American. But just as he placed his shaking fingers on the waistband, they heard footsteps approaching the door, with the sound of Lovino's complaining.

Alfred and Arthur scrambled to their feet and dashed to hide in the darkest corner of the room before the door slammed open, revealing the hunter and angry Granny.

"That beer sucker never took his hands off my brother after Gil and Eliza got married!" Lovino said. His Italian accent was heavy with spirits.

Antonio laughed and skidded against the wall. "Oh, is someone jealous?"

He gazed lovingly at his Italian through half-lidded eyes and brushed the stray brunet strands away from Lovino's clouded sight.

Lovino batted his eyelashes and said, _"Baciami, tonto."_

Antonio's face lit up brighter than the jack-o-lanterns outside and all at once, he enveloped Lovino's lips against his own.

Fortunately, the rays of Antonio's sunny face didn't reach the darkest corner of the basement or else their moment could've been ruined upon discovering Alfred and Arthur who watched them kiss like they were a couple from a box-office romantic movie. The two blonds didn't dare blink – where the hell was the popcorn? – but they did their best to hold their breath and not burst into laughter. Slowly but surely, they crawled to reach their clothes and put them on.

While Antonio and Lovino were too occupied with their suggestive preparations, Alfred and Arthur crawled out the door and went back to the party. Once declared that it was a mission accomplished, they giggled together like little boys.

"You're not half bad yourself," Alfred rubbed his shoulder against Arthur's. "Though I think you're more awesome with embroidery."

For the umpteenth time that night Arthur's face was red with alcohol and embarrassment. "Thank you," he said. "You should give it a try."

They agreed that they already had their fun and it was time to go home. Arthur checked his wristwatch; it was three in the morning. They could've bid their friends goodbye but no one was sober enough to understand what 'going home' meant. A cold gust of air embraced them even before stepping out; the progressively freezing autumn weather had arrived.

"Er, Al?"

"Yeah?"

"I forgot my jacket."

Alfred blinked in realization. "W-we're not going back, are we?" He asked. "I mean, I'm not the type who suddenly barges in a couple's sexy time."

A soft tinge of pink sprinkled across his face as he tried not to picture Antonio and Lovino doing it.

They had to walk a long way back and he couldn't let Arthur walk in that bitter-cold weather with his threadbare shirt.

"Here," Alfred removed his own jacket and slipped it over Arthur's shoulders.

The Brit tried to shrug it away. "But you need it too."

Alfred winked and wrapped an arm around Arthur. "Don't worry, heroes don't freeze to death."

And they walked out the door, teasing each other about their ball game to distract and keep themselves warm on their way home.

* * *

But teasing had never been this extreme, at least not for Alfred. They teased each other from the party all the way back to the apartment until the teasing increasingly turned into something else. Alfred couldn't remember how it began but somewhere between the snarky bantering and coquettish innuendos, it happened.

Maybe the liquor was working its magic.

Alfred inhaled a lungful of air before his lips returned devouring Arthur's, pinning him against his bedroom door. He was needy and impatient. He was a selfish, ravenous beast wanting to fill his senses with Arthur's scent and taste, a hypnotic blend of smoke, martini and honeysuckle. Reason was blurred. Nothingmade sense anymore. And Arthur played along, welcoming Alfred's advances and responding openly to his initiatives. They took turns with moves that intensified until they spiraled into this dirty little game.

While their lips interlocked into a venomous kiss, Arthur's hands left fervent trails underneath Alfred's shirt, tracing his soft and smooth skin upward from the small of his back. They found their way to Alfred's stomach and crawled up, coaxing each nipple. Alfred cringed as the warm hands explored inside his pants, scooping his ass; his breath hitched upon feeling the bulge between his legs grow hard. Arthur broke away from their kiss to rip Alfred's shirt above his head. Time to flip things around; Arthur seized the upper hand.

There, in the crude darkness of Arthur's room, they leisurely undressed each other as if following a sacred ritual. Arthur teased the zipper of Alfred's pants, reaching and groping his hard length that made Alfred let out a soft moan. The younger blond returned the favor, unzipped Arthur and tugged him out, his hand wrapping around the throbbing cock that he rubbed against his own.

Arthur hastily kicked his pants off, pulled away from Alfred and jumped on the bed. Taking it as an encouragement, Alfred chased after the Brit and they laughed as Alfred tumbled on top of him. He showered Arthur with sloppy, intoxicated kisses, trailing the outline of his jaw, to his chin, the crook of his neck and down to his chest and stomach. Arthur received them with gentle sighs and laughter, burying his fists through Alfred's tousled locks.

The faint light flitting through the blinds was all that illuminated the bedroom, like the shady basketball court. Arthur felt some of his insecurity and anxiety melt away because if it was dark, Alfred wouldn't have a clear view of his shameful body and he liked that better.

Robbed of breath from kisses and unreserved arousal, Alfred paused and rolled to his side next to Arthur. It was his first time to step inside Arthur's room, (aside from the abandoned alley, that was another restricted space) and the first thing that caught his eye made him chuckle with amusement. Sitting against the headboard between him and Arthur was a big brown teddy bear with a red bow tie, the sole witness to their overnight business.

"You sleep with a teddy bear?" Alfred snatched the teddy bear and examined it. He always knew Arthur has an inner posh English school boy. "God, you're such a lonely person."

"Humor me, then."

Arthur got on all fours, placing his hands beside Alfred's shoulders. He dove close to Alfred and skillfully removed the younger man's glasses with his teeth, placing them on the nightstand.

"I knew you're the naughtier one between you and me," Alfred ran his fingers across Arthur's sweat-slick chest, trying to familiarize with the smoothness that belonged only to him. They strayed in small, tentative circles and fancied the nipple ring on the left, tweaking it until they rediscovered the inked gothic clock on Arthur's stomach that Alfred so admired.

Anxiety lumped up in Arthur's throat, ill at ease that Alfred was studying him so he weighed him down and buried his face on his neck, giving it a bite.

Underneath him, Alfred moaned and shivered in weak protest. He exhaled sharply, about to say something but Arthur shut him up with another kiss and he didn't resist. Though it wasn't his first time, Alfred didn't venture to take the lead; he chose to relax and present himself to Arthur in complete surrender.

But the younger man aggressively cupped Arthur's face with his two hands, bringing him closer to his lips and invading his mouth with a forceful tongue. He couldn't get enough of Arthur's taste and he wanted it so much he couldn't stop. Arthur kissed him back harder, fumbling on the nightstand for the bottle of lube. Alfred's touch wandered from Arthur's face down to the slick erection that he fondled and teased. Arthur grinned into the kiss and moved his lips to Alfred's neck, giving it a ticklish slurp. Alfred moaned and arched his upper body, throwing his head back to the pillows, lost in a trance-like ecstasy.

He watched Arthur spread the liquid in his hands but sensed that they forgot something.

"Arthur, aren't we- ah!" Alfred gasped as the cold sensation assaulted his opening. "A-aren't we a little unsafe?"

Arthur paused and chuckled. His laughter was music to Alfred's ears.

"Silly yank." He leaned his forehead against Alfred's and pecked him tenderly on the lips. "There's no need for that rubbish."

Was Arthur normally that impulsive and risky or was it because he was just drunk? But whatever it was, Alfred didn't mind, really. On the bright side, he finally got a taste of the bed after weeks of deprivation and was getting laid. He couldn't really ask for more.

Arthur continued stroking his opening, the second finger inserted as his lips left tingling kisses on Alfred's chest and making the other grip his hair with the mounting pleasure. Alfred tried to contain the shaking in his legs, hemming them around Arthur whose lips were now following the breaths of golden hair down his navel.

Alfred's abdomen muscles contracted when Arthur went a little lower. The Brit stuck out his pierced tongue and licked the younger man's cock, green eyes glinting with naught, aimed at Alfred.

The boy released a defeated whimper as the tongue left his groin.

"No, you're not getting that tonight." Arthur smiled and petted Alfred's length now dripping with precum.

Arthur carried on with the postponed task; impatiently stretching Alfred's opening more quickly this time. He got a little rough – he knew it from Alfred's amplified moaning but he ignored it and admired the boy's suppressed expression that he was hiding his arm.

He stopped when he figured Alfred was ready and rested his palms on the boy's chest, feeling his rapid heartbeat.

"We're ready for takeoff."

* * *

Alfred woke up to the cacophonous silence of the room. He tried figuring out what time of day it was but the gray weather outside proved stingy. His head pounded a bit but it wasn't a tenfold of the Revenge of Vodka. A grin stretched across his face as last night's memories flooded his hung over brain.

He closed his eyes, reliving the moments, feeling Arthur's touches ghosting against every inch of his skin. Hell, Arthur sure knew how to touch the right places, where it felt good for Alfred. His senses played a spontaneous flashback: the touch of their slick skin, the sound of their skittish laughter, Arthur's honeysuckle-and-smoke taste in his mouth and those toxic green eyes smoldering under the pale moonlight.

They were intoxicated but it was consensual, right? On Alfred's part there were no regrets with the way he surrendered himself to Arthur, letting the Brit straddle him and leave him moaning and screaming Arthur's name. He never thought someone could make him feel so ecstatic like all his past sexual experiences had been nothing but lies.

Arthur was a little rough on him all throughout, but the roughness sent Alfred into a more excitable frenzy. After some time they stopped – weary but content – and Arthur lay beside him, pulling the covers for the both of them. Alfred remembered wrapping his arms around Arthur, his face pressed against the crook of his neck, their legs entangled as they drifted away.

Alfred's eyes fluttered back to the present and he realized his face was red. How would he face Arthur? What should he tell him? Should he thank him for last night? 'Hey, Arthur. Last night was pretty fun. That was the best sex I've had in my life, you win all the awards for that. I think we should do it again.' His head swirled at that thought and he actually thought he was going to puke – of course he didn't have the guts for that!

He took five deep breaths and turned to face the music but found the other side of the bed empty.

* * *

**AUTHOR'S NOTE:**

_Do I still have to warn you for sexual themes? (Nahhh) Just excuse my inability to write good pr0n, will you? I'll try to make it better next time. *smirks*_

_What do you think of Alfred's existence? Is he human? Is he an extraterrestrial being or is he a gift from a fairy godmother? You'll know the real answer if you figure out what film inspired me to write this thing. __**I will write a one-shot for the first one who gets the correct answer. **__Hint: it's a romantic comedy released in 2012. _

_My two/three favorite chapters are coming up next so just hang on and we'll be there before you know it. Thank you for waiting and see you next time~_


End file.
